


Bird of Paradise

by Gorillazgal86, improfem



Series: Plenteous Crop [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale doesn't have human genitalia, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Intercrural Sex, Jealousy, M/M, NSFW Art, Not between the main characters though, Ottoman Empire, Painter!Aziraphale, Pining, Podfic Welcome, Sexual Harassment, Transformative Works Welcome, Vaguely historical omens, paint fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:54:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24060931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorillazgal86/pseuds/Gorillazgal86, https://archiveofourown.org/users/improfem/pseuds/improfem
Summary: "Crowley has no right to barge into his space like this, looking exactly as he does, the perfectly form fitting band of the trousers, slung far too low to be considered decent only drawing attention to those perfectly slim hips. So Aziraphale tears his eyes away from the sight, focusing instead on the shelf of books behind Crowley.//Vile tempter,// Aziraphale thinks, certain that Crowley is finding this role very amenable indeed, there were certainly more difficult ways to earn a soul, than traipsing about as a sultan's favourite, spoiled and pampered, adored beyond what was reasonable. "While this fic is part of a series, it reads as a fully stand alone story.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Plenteous Crop [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1735825
Comments: 67
Kudos: 130





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another one from our series of Crowley and Aziraphale reliving/reimagining/recreating scenes from their past. As mentioned in _Violet Tiaras_ , these are part of a larger, so far unpublished story, but can be read as standalone. In the context of the larger story, some parts of this are memory, some fantasy. The fantasy parts are set in italics here.
> 
> Many thank you to the wonderful [Kalessin Astarno](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KalessinAstarno/) for her beta services.
> 
> The stunning [art](https://www.dropbox.com/s/ivayi52naxw1vm3/Bird%20of%20Paradise.png?dl=0) (at the end, as a treat) by the fantastically talented [Aivelin](https://aivelin.tumblr.com)

The library is quiet at this time of the night. Well, being a library, it is quiet most of the time. But a special kind of quiet falls over it in the late hours, when the entire palace is off at one of the Sultan's philosophical salons, or one of his lavish parties, or - well. Aziraphale prefers not to think about the other things the courtiers do late at night. 

It's not that he is prudish. He's perfectly aware of what humans do with their bodies, and with each others'. Like any form of pleasure, he approves of it, and has himself participated enthusiastically, when the mood and the opportunity presented themselves. Of course, he’d never do so outside the bounds of reasonable ethical concerns, but even when humans do, he has learned to turn a forgiving eye on it. 

This, however, is different. Aziraphale has enjoyed his life here, so far. The Sultan is a great patron of the sciences, and as far as the rulers of this century go, not an exceptionally cruel one. Downright pleasant, if you're insignificant enough to avoid his suspicion and intelligent enough to provoke his interest. Which, disguised as a scholar and a eunuch, Aziraphale has done to date. He can't help but think that all this is about to change, however. 

Ever since he first saw that first shocking glimpse of copper hair and heard the first whispers of the Sultan's new captive, he knew that his reasonably uncomplicated assignment was bound to change at some point. It's no secret to him that the Sultan assembles good-looking young men around himself, and while Aziraphale has been on edge over the topic ever since he learned that many of them are captives, he hasn't found reason to think that they are especially mistreated. Some of them genuinely seem to enjoy their station. After all, they get to live a comfortable life and are close to one of the most influential men of their time. 

But this is different. This is Crowley. And where Crowley is concerned, Aziraphale just can’t bring himself to exhibit the same kind of detached acceptance.

He busies himself with his books, mulling over the presence of his sworn enemy in the palace. This wasn't the first time he'd found himself in close proximity to the demon. Indeed their mirrored roles as the sole representatives of Heaven and Hell had them crossing paths with some regularity. And if Aziraphale was honest with himself, he rather looked forward to the occasions -- except for now, when every glimpse of Crowley stirs an ugly, jealous rage in him that he finds hard to ignore. 

And still, he's done his best to keep his distance so far. As amiable as Aziraphale finds the Sultan, he has a reputation for favouring exceptionally beautiful young men and Crowley must have found an opening to secure another soul for Hell. A most distasteful endeavor, which Aziraphale tells himself has everything to do with the damnation involved, and nothing to do with the process of getting there. That can be the only explanation for why he is here. Aziraphale can hardly fault Crowley: it is his job after all, but something bitter and vile creeps up his throat as the thought slithers through his mind. Aziraphale shakes his head, that train of thought not conducive to anything and hardly the most appropriate. 

He straightens himself and turns his attention instead to a particularly erotic tome of poetry. The Ottomans really do have an eye for the decadent and while it isn’t strictly what he has set out to read, Aziraphale can't resist the lure. He settles into a comfortable chair that may not have been palace issued, but suits his particular tastes, and opens the book, scanning his eyes across the pages.

The sound of the door opening and closing softly piques his attention, which a moment ago was lost in a heart-felt lamentation to forbidden lust and unfulfilled desires. He frowns and lowers the book to his lap and casts a cautious glance towards the sound. He closes the book quickly, the fear that he'll be caught reading what amounted to pornography courses through him. 

He hears breathing, heavy and winded, like whoever has entered his sacred space, this library in the small hours, has run to get there. Quietly, Aziraphale miracles the book back to its place and listens as a relieved sigh fills the quiet of the library and footsteps begin to draw closer. 

When the intruder finally rounds the corner, he is turned towards the door, his back to Aziraphale. The light is low, so all Aziraphale can make out is the slender build and narrow hips perfectly accented by a length of cloth, wound tightly around them in an attempt to rein in the voluminous trousers. Ah, one of the Sultan's favourites, then. The newcomer staggers backwards into the reading nook, and the instant his bright hair catches the light, Aziraphale realises who he is. 

"Crowley," he breathes, and to his satisfaction, the other wheels around with a look of utter shock and confusion on his face. 

"An- Aziraphale?!? What are you doing here?" 

Of course he hasn't noticed. The young men surrounding the Sultan, while not technically of high status within the court, are all of high birth and more importantly - always dressed and displayed for everyone to notice. Aziraphale, on the other hand, has done his level best not to attract too much attention, to whisper his suggestions quietly into the sultan's ear, and be forgotten as soon as his ideas fall on fertile ground. Still, it stings just a little, that after weeks under the same roof, Crowley hasn't even realised that he is there. Must be quite engrossed in his temptation. 

"Just my job. As are you, I presume? Though it doesn't look like you're having a very good time with it, at the moment."

Crowley casts him a lopsided smirk, cocking his hip to the side and shrugs casually. Aziraphale finds this infuriating, though he fights hard to swallow the hot envy that burns the back of his throat. Crowley has no right to barge into his space like this, looking exactly as he does, the perfectly form fitting band of the trousers, slung far too low to be considered decent only drawing attention to those perfectly slim hips. So Aziraphale tears his eyes away from the sight, focusing instead on the shelf of books behind Crowley. 

//Vile tempter,// Aziraphale thinks, certain that Crowley is finding this role very amenable indeed, there were certainly more difficult ways to earn a soul, than traipsing about as a sultan's favourite, spoiled and pampered, adored beyond what was reasonable. 

"It's going alright actually. Didn't expect to find you here, surely you're not trying to win the Sultan for Heaven, because I can assure you, that soul has a priority pass to the Second Circle of Hell," Crowley says easily, drawing Aziraphale's eyes back to his face.

Crowley wears his rust coloured locks in a loosely curled, shoulder-length style, a glimmering golden snake armband on his bare left arm and a tight fitting vest top, his amber chest hair creeping out of the deep v-neck. It's indecent and unholy. And Aziraphale can't tear his eyes away from the expanse of skin revealed to him. 

It is quite the change from the more buttoned up styles favoured out west.

"Oh and I'm sure you have everything to do with that, don't you," Aziraphale sneers, that biting vitriol spilling into his voice. Crowley pushes his hand through his hair easily, ruffling the already bedraggled locks and Aziraphale is now certain that Crowley is teasing him and being quite cruel about it. He wishes Crowley would show himself the door so he could go back to his poetry, even if it was hitting a bit too close to home. 

"You flatter me Angel. But you and I both know, he's done quite enough on his own to earn his place. But if it keeps head office happy," Crowley shrugs casually, pulls a loosely rolled cigarette from the seemingly endless fabric of his trousers and lights it with a flame from his fingers. "And what are you doing here?"

"Thanking you not to smoke around the books, for one thing." With agility that betrays the comfortable dimensions of his corporation, Aziraphale is out of his seat and snatches the cigarette from Crowley's hand, drowning it in the last bit of tea that has been sitting on the desk in front of him. Crowley doesn't even seem angry, he just stares quizzically, probably wondering what the hell has gotten into him. 

"I'm hoping to keep an eye on any offspring the Sultan has. Now that he's established a somewhat stable reign, it would only be favorable to make sure he has a sensible heir to pass his reign on to. Just in case something were to happen to him." 

Contrary to what humans sometimes seem to believe, angels don't actually know how long and how well they are going to live. With powerful people like the Sultan, it's best to have a plan B, unless you want to risk the possibility of an entire empire dissolving into chaos. A remark dances on the tip of his tongue about how Crowley and his consorts are surely doing their best to minimise the number of sons born into this royal family, but he swallows it down. What's the use? 

He leans against the table, arms crossed over his chest, and faces Crowley. With some pleasure, he notes that Crowley makes no move to light another cigarette, obviously respecting Aziraphale's authority over the place. Small as it may be, it is a victory that feels good. 

"What are you doing here, then? No party to attend to this evening? Had to preserve your reputation of being nothing more than a pretty young thing and avoid getting drawn into a deep discussion?"

Crowley shrugs, and to Aziraphale's surprise, doesn't attempt to rise to the bait. Instead, he collapses into the seat where Aziraphale was sitting only moments ago, and Aziraphale can't help but think that it's his own body warmth that is surrounding Crowley now. He leans forward almost subconsciously, and rears back as soon as he becomes aware of himself. 

//Stop it.// This foolish heart. And whatever else part of his anatomy may be driving him tonight. 

"Just got tired of humans, I guess. Wanted to take some time off from them, and technically, I've managed."

Aziraphale arches an eyebrow, wondering what exactly it was Crowley needed a break from. He clears his throat primly. The smell of smoke still lingering in his nose is now blending with the sulphur and brimstone scent of the demon and it's making him dizzy in a not exactly unpleasant way. Aziraphale bites back the inappropriate question playing on the tip of his tongue and chooses instead a more civilised route. 

"Do you come in here often? You seemed to know where you were going, but I'm certain I've never seen you in here," Aziraphale asks cautiously, trying not to focus too hard on Crowley as he pulls a foot up onto his seat, somehow managing to sprawl further across the armchair and providing a view for Aziraphale that he is certain he shouldn't be drawn to.

"Yeah, sometimes. It's quiet and the other consorts don't seem all that interested in books. For captive men, they're quite happy with their lot, parties, sex and wine on tap, but no interest in higher learning. It's a good place to gather my thoughts," Crowley concedes and settles further into the chair, his knees somehow dropping open even further.

Aziraphale can hardly focus on the conversation with the lascivious sight before his eyes. He manages to solidify himself despite the assault Crowley is landing across his senses and finds another biting remark. 

"Then I'm not quite sure exactly what you're doing here Crowley. The sin and damnation seems adequately catered for, what's in it for you?" 

He feels rather pleased at how the remark makes Crowley squirm and flap his mouth uselessly as he tries to find his own response to the question.

"Proprietary information Angel! I can't reveal Lucifer’s every whim to the opposition," Crowley says defensively, crossing his arms across his chest. 

It's unusual for Aziraphale to have the upper hand over Crowley and he can't help but delight in the rush it gives him; a cure to the creeping lack of angelic charity he was feeling towards seeing Crowley in an active temptation. 

"It's never stopped you before," Aziraphale says sweetly and he is treated to another delectable display of Crowley squirming under his gaze.

//Just admit you're whoring about the place because it's easy and fun and at least I can rest easy that it's just your demonic nature and you can't resist an easy win,//Aziraphale thinks snidely.

"I'm not - you can't just - ngk!" Crowley is sputtering with a mixture of embarrassment and anger now, and Aziraphale really shouldn't be enjoying it this much. 

//Can't what? So I can’t tempt you, but you're so happy for me to do it whenever it gets you out of a boring job?// 

He knows, even as he thinks it, that this is ridiculous, that a bit of extra sweetness won't have any measurable effect on a demon. Certainly not when coming from a frumpy old angel, who poses as a librarian and a _eunuch_ , for heaven's sake! But still, it's nice to pretend. 

"Alright, alright. Don't fret, I have a nice vintage stashed away somewhere. Let's open that, and you can tell me what you've been up to the past, what has it been? 150 years? Unless that's also proprietary information." 

Their run-ins are really beginning to fall frightfully close together. As an agent of Heaven, Aziraphale should probably find this concerning. What is it that keeps throwing them together, and has it already impacted the effectiveness of his missions? As a supernatural creature, sometimes quite alone when stationed on Earth for hundreds of years at a time, he finds he doesn't care much. Crowley may be the adversary, but he still makes good conversation.

The offer of wine seems to relax Crowley a bit, who despite the sprawling position on the chair, looks defensive, coiled and ready to strike. Aziraphale can't help but wonder what has Crowley so worked up, even when he’s trying so hard to look relaxed.

"Yeah, sure, that sounds good," Crowley says, an air of relief in his voice now that the topic is moving away from his motivations.

Aziraphale pockets the information that whatever has brought Crowley to Constantinople has him more highly strung than usual and sets it aside for later consideration. For now, he’s more interested in sharing a bottle with him, despite their differences. 

"Come on then, it's in my room," Aziraphale says cordially and indulges himself at the sight of Crowley untangling himself from his chair and moving to stand beside him.

"Best thing you've said all night, Angel," Crowley says, now on his feet and reclaiming his nonchalant demeanour. 

Aziraphale leads Crowley to his quarters, just tucked behind the library, wishing that he hadn’t noticed the soft rustle of fabric from Crowley's trousers. It only serves to remind him of what is underneath. Aziraphale chides himself for this foolishness, dwelling on Crowley's trousers (and indeed the contents thereof) is only going to feed the little green monster who has settled uncomfortably in his stomach. They are two celestial (and infernal) beings who are going to enjoy a casual catch up over a good glass of wine. Nothing interesting at all to report there. 

As Aziraphale pulls the key to his room out and opens the door, Crowley brushes past him with an air of familiarity that makes him bristle, quite destroying the grand introduction he had planned on the journey. Crowley snaps his fingers to instantly light up all of the candles in the room and Aziraphale shoots him another dirty look. How very dare he stride in like this, like he owns the place?! 

"So this is where they're keeping you?" Crowley observes, scanning his eyes across the newly lit room. 

Aziraphale's quarters are befitting his station, a simple plaster walled room but made comfortable with a few improvements. Anyone one the palace that needs to meet him does so in the library or their own quarters; the bedroom of a eunuch is of no interest to most denizens of the palace, so he feels no guilt in the minor upgrades he’s made. The walls and single window in the room are draped with gauzy pink and blue chiffon and the low bed beneath it with emerald green silks and cushions. Littered around the room are copper lanterns lined with brightly jewel-toned glass, that Azirpahle purchased from the local bazaar and cast the room in a warm rainbow of colour when lit. And of course he simply wouldn’t do without additional bookshelves for some of his personal collection, well-worn reading chair and a small desk. It’s nothing compared with the decadence enjoyed elsewhere in the palace, but it’s comely and it’s his. 

"Yes this is _where they're keeping me._ I find it quite quaint. Not all of us can enjoy the master's chambers after all," Aziraphale snips, not quite able to shake that seething envy, though it has nothing to do with his own access to the Sultan's lavish wing and everything to do with Crowley's.

He strides over to the cabinet which holds his little stash of wine, and as he brushes past Crowley, he can almost swear he hears him muttering under his breath. 

_"Yeah, nothing but enjoyment going on there."_

"What was that?" 

When Aziraphale turns around, Crowley has folded himself into the reading chair, and looks slightly uncomfortable yet again. What is it with this mission and its effect on this usually so boisterous and unflappable demon? 

"Nothing, Angel. So, what was it you've been up to the past few decades? Been supervising the fall of the Byzantine empire?" 

Aziraphale has, in fact, made it his goal to stay as far away as possible from that mess. The truth is, it's been a while since he has been 'up to' anything. He’s mostly been spending his time in little villages and other parts of the world that are far off the beaten track of politics. Instead of answering right away, he shuffles over to his bed, and settles awkwardly on the edge. Surely, it hasn't been Crowley's intention to make him uncomfortable, but he can't help it. Of course, with Crowley as the guest in his room, it only makes sense for Aziraphale to claim the bed to sit on, and yet, having Crowley in such close proximity to his bed is giving him ideas. Interesting and disturbing ideas that start a stirring between his thighs.

The more Aziraphale thinks about this, the more he is relieved that Crowley is sitting in the chair and not on the bed. Aziraphale would only spend every moment he is meant to be sleeping on gathering the duvet where Crowley has been perched. Inhaling the smokey spiced scent of him and day-dreaming what else he could have had Crowley doing in this bed. Aziraphale bites his own tongue to punish himself for the wanton thoughts that dance through his mind. He and Crowley are friends, at best, and even that is beyond the pale. 

Instead, he busies his mind and his hands with uncorking the wine and pouring out two glasses of a tannic, full-bodied red that he's certain Crowley will enjoy. Although silently, Aziraphale chides himself for knowing exactly what Crowley's taste in wine is. Crowley has a hand extended in expectation and Aziraphale dutifully presses the glass into it and balances himself back on the edge of the bed, setting the wine bottle carefully down at his feet. That he scoots closer to Crowley, well, surely, that’s just in avoidance of knocking over the bottle. The fact that it brings their knees a hair's distance apart is purely coincidental.

"No, in fact. Heaven seemed to have momentarily forgotten I was down here at all. Well, until recently anyway and I was rather enjoying a more bucolic existence. It was a nice change of pace, to focus on small, but impactful projects, establishing schools in rural villages and just travelling about really. We get so hung up on the rich and powerful that it's easy to forget the simple joy of a child learning or helping a farmer to work more efficiently. Until this job came around, I was beginning to feel like something of a free agent," Aziraphale says and sips at his wine. 

He's watching carefully over the glass as Crowley brings his own wine to his lips, that slightly forked serpent's tongue just visible against the bottom rim of the glass, rich red liquid tipping into that beautiful, sinful mouth. Aziraphale feels another stir in his lap at the mere sight of it and his tongue earns another firm bite for his mind's insolence.

As the wine's warmth settles into Crowley, he seems to relax. They are now in familiar territory. Close, private quarters and a fine glass of something alcoholic have always been their spiritual home together and the unease cloaking Crowley seems to lift slightly.

"I wish it had been so quiet for me. Though humans do most of the heavy lifting as far as paving their path to Hell is concerned. I’m more an observer than an active participant these days," Crowley says with a hint of . . . not melancholy, but certainly something approximating it, staring into his wine glass, swirling it idly from his wrist.

"Except for now of course," Aziraphale says with a self-satisfied grin, though the look of weariness Crowley gives him in return wipes the grin immediately off his face. 

"Can we not talk about that?" The request is simple, but the exhaustion in Crowley's voice runs deep. 

Again, Aziraphale is left to wonder what, exactly, has changed. Crowley is ordinarily so happy to share the details of a project, so gleefully ready to report on his most recent exploits. Granted, they've never talked about a temptation of quite this nature, but Aziraphale would have figured there isn't anything fundamentally different about it. Not to Crowley. 

He wonders briefly if Hell may have caught wind of their friendly chats. They certainly wouldn't take kindly to Crowley cosying up to an angel, but in that case - why would he have agreed to this at all? He could just as well have turned away, and found another hiding place. So, is it this job? 

According to everything Aziraphale has heard, the Sultan's consorts are treated well. They are given a comfortable standard of living and the smarter ones among them even earn positions in the court. And by all accounts the Sultan, while exceedingly fond of pretty young men, never forces himself on them. Who knows what he does once one shows interest, though, as Crowley will have inevitably done. He wouldn't be the first powerful man who enjoys when his victims seem to come to him voluntarily. And then enjoys taking them apart. Again, Aziraphale's eyes travel over Crowley's form, but as far as he can tell, he doesn’t have any obvious injuries. 

"Of course. What would you like to talk about, then?" 

Crowley pauses, and takes another sip of his wine. He relaxes considerably, and finally, his mouth tips upward into a smile. 

"Books. Tell me about your opinions on this printing press thing, I know you have to have your ideas there."


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley wakes the next morning on his soft and comfortable bed, his mind racing with Aziraphale's enthusiastic views on the miraculous new printing press paired against Aziraphale's rather harsh teasing on Crowley's _job_ here. Crowley presses his face into his silk pillow, unable to shake the smug grin and biting words Aziraphale has thrown in his direction.

Crowley isn't here because of a temptation -- well, not the temptation Aziraphale suspects, anyway. Hell has given him explicitly clear instructions: the soul of the Sultan’s first wife must be won. As the mother to the Sultan’s heir, Hell believes they can influence the future dynasty nice and early through her. 

For his part, Crowley isn’t confident it will work; he's been putting his best effort into swaying her, but she’s a kind-hearted and gentle woman, so Crowley’s working from scratch. He’s been fortunate in that he was able to befriend her easily enough, a common adoration of the botanical arts had helped him win her favour. But he’s not even managed to secure a snide comment about the Sultan’s other wives or consorts from her. Damning her soul feels like bailing out a sinking ship with a teaspoon. 

More than just the difficulty of it, it strikes Crowley as deeply unfair to try and sway a woman who has dedicated her existence to being so damn decent. By all accounts, she’s well-loved both within and outside the palace walls. She’s charitable, friendly, generous and gentle and for a demon who only sauntered vaguely downwards, he can’t muster the evil intent to drag her down to his level. It eats away at him that every interaction they have is tainted with deception and there’s a part of him that’s glad that her goodness rises above whatever effort he’s made to tempt her to sin, even if it means he’s no further along after nearly two years of living in the palace.

Crowley can hardly see the value in focussing so much attention on a single individual, particularly when that person seems incapable of even a mildly wicked thought. With a bit of imagination, several people can be swayed at once and the success of the mission multiplies. But Lucifer himself handed Crowley the assignment and confirmed that failure to complete the job would mean removal of his Earth-walking privileges, as well as whatever else the Dukes of Hell deemed fitting punishment.

Crowley is therefore stuck in this palace, posing as a consort until she takes the bait. 

The Sultan is a generous and kind man and as far as the cages Crowley has found himself in over the years, this is certainly the most comfortable. His only job is to look beautiful and be a living, breathing decoration. If it weren't for the time running down on the job he is meant to be doing, not to mention the annoying and petty scheming of his fellow consorts, Crowley could be quite content.

With a sigh, Crowley stands and pulls his billowing trousers off and slips off his shirt before padding his way naked into the luxurious consorts’ bath. The fragrant, steamy air seeps instantly into his skin and helps to soothe away the persistent image of Aziraphale’s cruel smirk.

"Good morning Anthony! So very good of you to join us," a voice drifts through the fog and Crowley winces.

"Tahir. Always a pleasure," Crowley bites out, barely hiding how little he feels it. 

The voice belongs to the Sultan's current favourite, who has been wary of the unconventional-looking newcomer from the day Crowley arrived at the palace. He can't blame him, he supposes, those on top always fear being replaced, and Crowley's unusual hair and eyes have been drawing attention from the start. He's done his best to stay out of the Sultan's way, but of course, the other consorts assume it's just a ploy to generate more intrigue. 

With a sigh, Crowley slides into the hot water, and places his arms on the marble tiles surrounding them. He's deliberately turned away from Tahir and his small group, but that doesn't prevent them from sidling up to him. He closes his eyes demonstratively. Tahir isn't a bad-looking fellow, and if he wasn't certain it would be misconstrued, Crowley would have no problem reassuring him that he won't be replaced so soon. In fact, where Crowley is concerned, there wouldn't be any reason to replace the favourite's softer physique and striking blue eyes with whatever Crowley has to offer, but he knows humans crave variety. Personally, he doesn't mind it, but given the choice... he usually finds himself drawn to lovers not unlike Tahir. Even his curls fit the picture, or would if they weren't a deep, glossy black. 

"A pleasure indeed, Anthony. Which reminds me, you rather missed out last night, the Sultan had us spoiled with the smoothest raki and well, it all rather went from there. His Majesty was asking after you, but as ever, you can be quite elusive. You're always missing out on our finest treats," Tahir sneers, a twitter of giggles bubble from the other consorts.

Crowley glares and regards the group of men. If he was prepared to dig deep enough into their inner thoughts and desires, he'd find suspicious envy of the unusual looking foreigner, with his too yellow eyes and vibrant red hair, who gives the Sultan only the bare minimum of attention and yet manages to have his name frequently on the Sultan's tongue. Hell, Crowley doesn't even need to go that deep. They reek of it.

"Surely that just means more for all of you and we do know how well you all enjoy your treats," Crowley just grins easily, playing into their consternation and shrugs, sliding himself a bit further into the perfectly warm water. 

"And why shouldn't we? We are afforded a great honour, to be the Sultan's consort and he is a generous and kind man, not all consorts find themselves in such favourable conditions. You have been quite rude and spoilt to run off every time he wishes to show us his care and devotion," Yusef, a young social climber with expressive, almost black eyes, says from behind Tahir.

Crowley is beginning to regret coming into the bath at all. He knows he doesn't behave like a consort should, fawning over the Sultan and being present at the parties hosted for them. He does, however, show up to court, immaculately dressed and he's well aware of the glares this earns when the Sultan piles him with praise: ‘My perfect ruby, you could be a jewel in my crown, if you would only do me such an honour.’

"The moment the Sultan informs me that he is disappointed with my contribution, I will address the situation then, but by all accounts, he's very happy with my presence here and I'm certain he'd be most disappointed to know that his other consorts are indulging in speculation and idle jealousy," Crowley hisses and the gaggle of men step back just a bit in response, though Tahir still has a glint of badness in his eyes, not fully able to let go what he views to be unacceptable levels of rudeness from Crowley.

Something seems to have been in the raki.

"Of course, we all just assume that you're avoiding the Sultan, but what do we know? Maybe you've got other ways to hold his attention." He presses his body up to Crowley's back, and Crowley stiffens. 

He's not after a fight, he knows that can only cause problems, though with his powers, he doesn't have any doubts that he’d be able to hold his own against the group of them. But then, he'd have to explain how he did it, and possibly how he can justify harming some of the Sultan's most favourite toys. So he only hisses, and pushes Tahir back, but it doesn't stop the other. 

"Ah, on to something, am I? Tell us, Anthony, what could you possibly do for his highness that he craves so much he lets you ignore him like a common street merchant?" He has stepped back, but pinches Crowley's arse without any regard for boundaries. "Must be something pretty embarrassing if you're not even telling us. You pretend to be a girl for him?" 

He has several wives, but for some reason, the Sultan has acquired a reputation for having a taste for men in women's clothing. Crowley has no idea if it was true, and no intention of finding out. 

Crowley turns around to face Tahir and gives him a warning hiss that makes the other step back for a moment. Unfazed, Tahir's pulling his shoulder back, squaring up, and ready to take his chances with Crowley, clearly oblivious to the exact nature of the danger he's just put himself in. 

//You small, petty man, I have a special place reserved just for you. I can't lay a finger on you here, but I have time, you spoilt shit, I have all the time in the world and there's plenty of Hell's demons who would be all too happy to ensure your eternity is showered with all the attention you could dream of.//

Crowley gathers his composure, taking a step towards Tahir and the group gathered behind him. A serpentine smirk spreads across his lips, flickering his forked tongue just long enough to unsettle the humans, tasting the air, rank with undisguised derision. 

"You mean for that to insult me? As if donning a bedlah for our master's pleasure would in some way debase me further?" Crowley says, his eyes boring into Tahir's and he cups Tahir's chin in his hand, ensuring the man can't turn away. "What’s made you so afraid, Tahir?" Crowley wonders, tilting his head, sliding into the other man's fears and desires. Tahir stills under his touch. Crowley finds exactly what he expects to, but it doesn't stop the satisfied, dangerous grin that spreads across his lips.

"You're a beast! You unnatural demon!" Tahir spits, the arrogance now absent from his voice. 

//Oh, you're finally catching on, the first intelligent words to spill from that useless mouth of yours.//

"Favourites come and go, my dear Tahir. You will grow old and fall out of favour. The little bit of beauty bestowed on you will fade and whatever will you do then? What happens when the high pedestal you've put yourself on crumbles around you? Surely you should be more concerned about that than about how, when and if I please the Sultan. Your time here is precious and short and you should consider yourself fortunate that I haven't already taken your place."

With a look that's probably trying to be disgusted, but just manages to look scared shitless, Tahir turns away. 

"Come on, friends, whatever his secret is, I'm sure we wouldn't want to infect ourselves with something so rank and unnatural." 

Crowley watches them settle in at the opposite end of the pool, and after a moment, decides that he has had enough. He steps out of the water, and makes his way down the hall to where the massage treatments take place. He's welcomed immediately by one of the attendants, and escorted to a marble table. With a sigh, he plops himself face down on the warm surface, and allows himself to be scrubbed with fragrant soap and exfoliating cloth. 

If there's one thing Crowley appreciates about the palace, it's the warm comforts it has in store for his serpentine body. Really, it wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't so damn lonely sometimes. Although, in light of the previous evening, maybe he should reassess that statement. His lips curve into a smile, and he closes his eyes, imagining Aziraphale there next to him, on the next table over. 

//Oh, Angel, you would love this. Do they let you use these facilities? They should, there’s not a courtier around that would appreciate it as much as you.//

The strong hands working deeply into his muscles have Crowley melting into the warmed marble, drawing pleased, contented little mewls from him.

//I could bring him in here, the masseuse wouldn't mind and a miracle would ensure the other courtiers wouldn't notice. I wonder if Aziraphale would come?//

Crowley thinks idly. He lets his mind flesh out the vision of Aziraphale, spread across the marble slab next to him in all his glory. All that plush, silky skin laid out for Crowley's eyes like a buffet, the sweet, pleasured sounds Aziraphale would make at the attention. Aziraphale always did lose himself when indulged, be it by particularly scrumptious food, an exceptional wine or an expertly crafted garment, Crowley could only imagine how well Aziraphale would receive this deeply physical pleasure. 

A pooling heat settles into Crowley's belly, his cock just twitching against the hard marble as his mind eye materialises the pleasured vision of Aziraphale. His hands curl into soft fists, and he wills his stirring erection away. He doesn't want the masseuse to misinterpret his reaction to the massage, when in fact it has everything to do with his imagination envisioning more of Aziraphale than he's been privy to before.

The hands still on his back and with his arousal in check, Crowley stands and gives a grateful nod before he pads back into the expansive bedroom he and the other courtiers share, drying himself off under the watchful eyes of his ‘colleagues’. Tahir still seems to have words playing on his tongue, though a swift glare in his direction causes him to swallow them. A younger consort, new here and still finding his place, sidles up to Crowley and taps him gently on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, I'm sorry Anthony, I couldn't help but overhear the others talking, saying quite, well, unkind things while you were in the bath. I'm sure it's idle gossip, but you've always been so friendly to me, I thought I should say, as I'd want to know if it were me," he whispers quietly and Crowley's heart cracks at the sweetness of the gesture.

"Yes, I know Berat, they said as much to me in the bath as well, I'm not surprised they carried it into here as well," Crowley says wearily. 

"I don't think you're after Tahir's place as favourite, though the Sultan does always speak so highly of you and has expressed some disappointment when you're missing. Is everything all right? The Sultan is not a pushy man and while he enjoys all our company, perhaps you may wish to be more present. Not hide so much, you know, seeing as this is what we're here to do. That is, I mean to say, enjoy his hospitality, at least, as nothing more than that is expected of us," Berat says carefully, obviously coming from a place of wanting to help and Crowley somehow finds this worse than the irritating teasing from the other consort.

He gives Berat a curt nod, but fears he's not managed to be quite as kind as he'd like to be with the newcomer. After all, he only means to help. 

"Thank you, I appreciate your concern. You'll have to excuse me, though, I have someplace to be, and I'm already running a little late." He hastily pulls on a pair of pants and a loose-fitting shirt, taking much less care with his appearance than usually, and ducks out of the room again. Where exactly he is going, he's not sure, but he knows if he stays in Tahir's vicinity for any amount of time today, he'll surely snap. 

//Maybe I should find the Sultan, and finally give him what he's been after. Not like I'm making any headway getting out of here as it is, and at least it's wipe that sneer off Tahir's face if I do replace him.//

Running into the Sultan’s arms would also certainly bring back that teasing, mocking smile on Aziraphale's face if he found out, and if he's being honest with himself, Crowley never wants to see that again. 

The amicable words, that slow, earnest smile Aziraphale had later in the evening, after a glass of wine and once he'd finally gotten to share all his extensive opinions on printed books? 

That. 

He wants that. Crowley hesitates only for a moment, and turns towards the library.


	3. Chapter 3

The sun is shining bright and warm through the windows of the library, and Aziraphale drinks in the silence around him. Spring is just beginning to give way to summer, with a pleasant warmth filling the city, before the oppressive humid heat of the summer months begins to bear down on the population.

Aziraphale thinks this suits him just fine. He’s always delighted for an opportunity to tuck himself away and not be pestered with questions and searching books for others.

The peace gives him space to mull over his own thoughts, which have become quite dominated by a singular topic as Crowley's visit to him the night before continues to play on his mind. The image of Crowley in those ridiculous trousers, slung far too low on his hips, the barely-there shirt - it’s teasing the most carnal thoughts into Aziraphale's mind.

Oh, to watch that billowy fabric slide down his slim hips and across his thighs, Crowley unwrapping himself with all the anticipation of a carefully and thoughtfully chosen gift.

Aziraphale clears his throat decisively to cover the quiet groan the image evokes.

He reminds himself that Crowley is here for a job and even if Aziraphale considers the job distasteful -- well, not distasteful, Aziraphale corrects himself. He's just not quite digested the bitterness that Crowley’s attentions are not pointed in his direction, even though he knows that such a notion is patently ridiculous. Crowley can and will do as he pleases to keep his head office happy, and it's none of Aziraphale's business.

The sound of the door opening catches his attention and he makes his way to see who's entered. For the second time in as many days, Aziraphale finds his adversary and object of his affection standing before him.

There is a strange look on Crowley's face, it's not quite panic, but something approximating it, mixed with frustration and weariness and it evokes the image of an animal trapped, though Aziraphale can't quite understand why. Surely Crowley has made this particular bed… though, evil does often sow the seeds of its own destruction and perhaps the temptation was proving more complicated and challenging than Crowley had anticipated.

"Welcome back," he announces cheerily, as he might have done with any other courtier who crossed the threshold to his sanctum. "Anything I can help you with, today?"

Crowley winces, and pulls a face that makes Aziraphale immediately regret that he asked. There is no need to tease, when Crowley is clearly already in a bad mood.

"They ever let you out of here, angel?" The question makes Aziraphale blink in surprise, as he has no restrictions on where he is allowed to go -- unlike Crowley, who is likely bound to the palace like all the consorts. In fact, he leaves the palace quite regularly, to enjoy the sights and sounds and tastes or their beautiful city. But he also loves his peace and quiet, tucked away in his own little corner of the library.

"Of course Crowley, why would you - never mind. Did you have something planned?"

Crowley shrugs, and looks oddly self-conscious for one of the most desired men in the palace. It is quite endearing, actually.

"No plans, no. Just wanted to see something else. Get out of these fucking palace walls for a change. Been cooped up here way too long." He hooks his fingers into the waistband of his pants, pulling it just low enough for Aziraphle to glimpse the amber trail of hair leading delectably downwards and for a moment, Aziraphale's heart stops.

"Of course, my friend. Let's go, I know a lovely garden where we could take a little walk. What do you say?"

Crowley nods gratefully, a small smile teasing his lips at _my friend_ , a relief setting over his shoulders and Aziraphale wonders for a moment about the last time Crowley actually stepped outside the palace. But he brushes it aside, Crowley is here of his own volition, he could surely pop out whenever he liked.

Aziraphale offers his arm, a charming local custom of friends not having the English hangup of physical contact amongst familiar faces. Crowley stares at him a moment, like he can’t believe his adversary is reaching out to him in friendship, before taking it and Aziraphale can't stop the warmth that courses through him as Crowley is pulled closer by the gesture. Aziraphale leads them through the halls and pushes open a large door, the bright sunlight pouring across both of them and like a plant that's been too long neglected in the shade, Crowley turns towards it, basking in the warm glow of it and Aziraphale's heart clenches at the sight.

"This way my dear. It's a beautiful day, isn't it? This is such a lovely time of year, warm but not too hot yet. And all the flowers are in bloom and this is an especially beautiful garden, I believe the Sultan's first wife, Gülbahar, installed it. She apparently has quite the green thumb and on her travels across the Empire, collected cuttings and bulbs of the most striking plants and flowers and created her own . . . well, Eden," Aziraphale explains as they walk and Crowley glances over at him with a rather sweet smile.

"Oh? And how did you work that out?" Crowley says softly and there's no teasing edge to it, just genuine fondness and it takes Aziraphale quite by surprise.

"She told me. She comes into the library very often and I’ve always found her to be a very personable woman, no aloofness or haughtiness about her and is bursting with pride about her beloved garden," Aziraphale says, returning Crowley's smile. Crowley looks back down at the ground for a moment and fixes his eyes ahead of him and for a flash, there is a twist of something uncomfortable on Crowley’s features that passes as quickly as it came. Aziraphale, however, is too caught up with how striking Crowley looks in the bright sunlight. Aziraphale has to force himself not to stare, the glow around him almost angelic: a vision of what Crowley may have been before he Fell.

Aziraphale stops them at a large iron gate, unlocking it easily and leads them into the garden and watches as Crowley's eyes widen in wonder and admiration. The garden is remarkable, high tiled walls, with rich verdant vines and leaves snaking throughout, brightly coloured flowers filling the air with their exotic perfume. A large water feature, tiled to match the walls stands in the middle, with a large fountain spilling water soothingly into the pool below. Crowley looks astounded, his eyes slowly taking in every inch of the vision before him, a childlike wonder sparkling in his amber eyes and a pleased smile blooms across Aziraphale's face.

"You've never been here?" Aziraphale asks after a few moments, still watching Crowley with impossible affection.

At times like this, it's easy to remember how he was when they met, when his only notion of 'making some trouble' was imparting wisdom on humans. Crowley, still mesmerised by the garden, circles the fountain in a slow arc.

"Nu-uh. We stay inside, mostly. Well, guess I do, don't know if any of the others come out here, I don't exactly talk to many of them." He sounds like he regrets it. Doesn't he? Aziraphale finds it hard to tell, but there's a note of loneliness and sadness in his voice.

But surely, that was part of his plan? He can't have thought disrupting the hierarchy of the court would make him popular with the ones he replaced. Aziraphale decides not to ask. After all, Crowley doesn't exactly seem thrilled to discuss his assignment.

"Well, it's high time, then. Come on, let me show you the pomegranate trees. I know you love those." Of course, the fruit won't be ripe this time of year, but surely, nobody will mind a minor miracle like that.

Crowley casts an eager and enthusiastic smile as they walk to the tree, suddenly laden and heavy with fruit that had only been blossoms a moment ago. A melodic laugh escapes Crowley, of course, he knows exactly what Aziraphale has done to the tree and Aziraphale looks at him sheepishly.

"Well, we may not be here by the time the fruit is ripe and it seemed a shame not to share them with you," Aziraphale says, a heat rising to his cheeks.

He watches as Crowley stretches up, revealing the creamy flesh of his belly as he plucks an especially enticing looking fruit and pulls it down. A tiny bit of Crowley, unwrapped just like that, and Aziraphale chides himself for staring. Crowley holds the pomegranate in his hands, turning it over before digging his thumbs into the meat of the fruit and splitting it open with his hands. Ruby red juice spills down his hands and wrists as the fruit yields.

Aziraphale is holding his breath, his heart pounding audibly in his ears, his blood unsure of exactly where to direct itself as he drinks in the sight. Crowley seems to consider for a moment pressing the vibrant, fragrant meat to his mouth and instead plunges his fingers into it, more juice running rivulets across his skin and Aziraphale is quite certain he's going to faint as Crowley scoops the seeds out, glistening like tiny rubies in the sunlight, and offers his hand out to Aziraphale. He swallows hard and tentatively bends to nibble some of the seeds from Crowley's hand, flicking his eyes up to Crowley's face, who is watching him with an intense interest and something else Aziraphale dare not name.

The seeds burst deliciously across his tongue as he bites down, sweet and tart, absolutely perfect. He's just savouring the taste when Crowley brings the fruit to his own lips, taking a large, greedy bite and more of that blessed juice begins to run out of the corner of his mouth and down his chin. Aziraphale's face is burning hotly as Crowley's lips are painted a bright, wet red, the pomegranate leaving Crowley looking as he's just been very passionately kissed. And Aziraphale wants very badly to do exactly that.

"Should know better than to accept fruit from me, Angel," Crowley teases, and there is something... that Aziraphale can't quite name in his voice. He often uses that term, but usually if is just that... another descriptive term, only stating a fact. Today it sounds softer, almost like an endearment. Aziraphale has to turn away.

"Yes, well... consider me tempted, I suppose," he dares to respond anyway, and it feels almost like flirting. He crouches down and scoops some water from the fountain, carefully dabbing at his face to remove the juice. "Come on then. I want to show you the view of the city, you can't mean to leave Constantinople without having properly seen it, now that you're here."

They walk the grounds extensively, and while Crowley is amazed by all of it - the elegant pavilions and the lively fountains, the marble and tiles - Aziraphale saves the very best for last. Once the sun begins to set, he steers them up to the roof of one of the summer pavilions, and gestures out at the city. The cupolas and minarets of several mosques gleam in the golden light of the setting sun, and when Aziraphale finally allows himself to turn around, Crowley's hair glows just as brightly.

"Stunning, isn't it?"

While Crowley stares out at the sunset, the city cast in a warming pink and orange glow, Aziraphale finds he can't even focus on the remarkable sight of Constantinople, his eyes are glued on Crowley, leaning on the edge of the balcony, his eyes moving slowly, scanning, drinking in the view.

Crowley looks lost in thought and it gives Aziraphale the opportunity to study him as the breeze catches a loose curl, brushing it across Crowley's cheeks, soft as a prayer. The steady movement as Crowley's shoulders rise and fall as he breathes and the way he seems to glow in the dying sunlight, looking every bit as exotic and intriguing as the rich landscape before them.

They have never spent a day like this, no teasing, no bickering, no wiles and no thwarting, just easy companionship. Aziraphale feels as though he's stepped into a storybook or at least fallen asleep on his armchair in the library, as this can’t possibly be real.

"It's beautiful Angel. I've been too caught up with my job to take in much of the area and I’d quite forgotten there’s a whole city bustling outside these walls. It was beginning to feel like a gilded cage, but this is remarkable. Thank you," Crowley breathes and turns to face Aziraphale just as the twilight begins to take hold, the stars beginning to brighten behind him.

Aziraphale's heart twists at the mention of the reason Crowley is here, though the loneliness and distress in his voice is unmistakable and Aziraphale cannot make heads or tails of it, Crowley should surely leave if the job has stopped being worth the effort involved. And the heartfelt and genuine way with which Crowley thanks him melts away any bile he feels tickling the back of his throat.

"My pleasure Crowley, I'm glad I got to share it with you as well," Aziraphale says hesitantly, feeling as though he's revealing too much of himself in admitting to this, but it earns him a soft and playful smile from Crowley.

"So, I finally managed to tempt you, eh?" Crowley laughs and it's a siren song to Aziraphale's heart, so earnest and pure. The lines of his face have lightened. It makes him look open and vulnerable in a way Aziraphale has never seen and it stills his breath.

Oh dear.

//If you knew how long I've felt tempted by you, you would probably run for the hills.//

He swallows thickly, and turns his back towards the city, to avoid the heartbreaking image of Crowley smiling at him.

‘Not mine, not mine, not mine,’ his heart thumps with every suddenly very audible beat.

Can Crowley hear it?

"Yes, well, I wouldn't be too proud of it, you old serpent. You know me and food. Come on, let's head back."

Crowley nods, and pushes himself off the railing to follow, but pauses before they reach the stairs.

"An- Aziraphale. Can I - can I stay with you tonight?" he asks, voice both hesitant and hopeful.

Aziraphale's world suddenly comes grinding to a screeching halt, he feels whiplashed at the request. He is trapped by Crowley's eyes, wide and hopeful, a shy blush creeping across his face and Aziraphale is certain that his heart will shatter.

He should say no, he should thank Crowley for the wonderful afternoon and beautiful evening, perhaps invite him for a friendly glass of wine but draw the line there. He should not and cannot permit the demon to stay, nay, sleep in his room. And yet that plaintive, sad look on Crowley's face beckons him.

"Crowley, I . . .” Azirpahale starts and draws a deep breath. “Of course you can, you needn't even ask my dear. I've got a gorgeous bottle of wine, we can have that," Aziraphale offers shakily, his world now tilting off its axis and does his best to make this sound like a normal, ordinary night they may have together.

The crack of relief that blossoms across Crowley's face makes Aziraphale shatter on the inside, his legs now wobbly and a small miracle is the only thing that is keeping him standing and upright.

//Why would you ask such a thing, you have a bed, a far more comfortable bed than I do, why do you want . . . need to stay with me?//

Aziraphale searches Crowley's face for an answer and finds no helpful clues, nothing to illuminate the rationale for why Crowley has made this request and while a pleasing warmth seeps through Aziraphale's limbs, he can't quite shake the uneasy feeling at the thought of watching Crowley sleep, seeing him prone and vulnerable. Gathering what little strength he has left, Aziraphale turns his focus to the stairs, his hands twisting in front of him, the nerves rattling him and making his stomach flip inside him. He needs to command his body to perform involuntary tasks as he leads Crowley to his room: breath in, breath out, heart beat, breath in, breath out, heart beat.

At the door, he stops abruptly, and looks back at Crowley.

"We haven't eaten. I normally eat with the other scholars, or have something sent to my room, but, well... it would look quite odd for you to be there." He pauses, briefly worrying the flesh of his lip, and comes to a decision.

"You go in. I'll fetch us something from the kitchen. I'm sure no one will wonder if I take a bit more than usual, I have cemented my reputation as a glutton quite well." He smiles a self-deprecating smile and presses the key to his room into Crowley's hand. The contact, small as it is, makes him shiver with the symbolism.

//I trust you. I will let you in.//

Then, before Crowley can respond, he is off, down the corridor and vanishes around a corner.

Once he's outside of Crowley’s field of vision, he braces himself against a wall, his legs no longer willing to hold him. He reaches to grab a thick finger-full of flesh on his arm and pinches hard, the pain radiating up to his shoulder, a sobering reminder that he was awake, this was real and this was happening.

Aziraphale slides down it into a squat, burying his face in his hands. Crowley is currently unlocking the door to his room, looking around the space that at least for now is Aziraphale's home, surrounding himself with everything Aziraphale holds dear . . . indeed is himself what Aziraphale holds most dear.

His breath is short, tight in his lungs and he's finding it difficult to regain his breath. He is brimming with excitement, fear, lust, adoration and confusion. The swirling mixture of emotions is making him dizzy and light-headed. He shakes it off; he's being ridiculous, it's just sleeping arrangements for the night and it wouldn't be the first time they'd seen the sun rise over a shared drink and never-ending conversation. Why would this be any different to that?

Crowley's never asked to stay before. They had never set out with a sleepover in mind.

Aziraphale bites his lips again, tasting a slight metallic twinge of blood, and snaps himself out of this spiralling train of thought. He makes his way quickly to the kitchen, bundles meat, bread and cheese in his arms and hurries back to the room, only tripping on his feet once and sending the bread skittering down the hallway. He is shaking as he bundles it back into his arms and moves to stand in front of his own bedroom door. He shuffles the food enough to free his hand, softly taps the door, and calls through the wood.

"Crowley, it's just me, could you open the door, please?" His heart is thundering in his ears as he watches the knob turn slowly and the door opens just enough for him to slip inside and push it closed again with his foot.

Crowley stands in front of him in the warm glow of the oil lamps and it softens the lines on his face enough for Aziraphale’s breath to catch. The alluring silhouette of the loose sleeveless shirt, the gold serpent arm band glinting in the light, his hair falling in soft curls across his shoulders, his slim hips clinging to the tight band of his trousers that billow in the air disturbed by Aziraphale entering the room.

//I love you,// Aziraphale thinks with sudden clarity, and almost drops his food all over again.

When did this happen? When has he allowed himself to feel like that about a demon, for heaven's sake? And not just any demon - his adversary on Earth, the constant threat to everything Aziraphale works for. Except, of course, when Crowley himself does the work to relieve him from it.

"You alright, Angel?" There it is again, that soft tone or is he just imagining it, after all? Have his emotions finally gotten the better of him, and is he hallucinating things now?

"Yes, yes, perfectly alright. All... ship-shape. Help me with the food, will you?" He lays out his offerings with far more care and precision than strictly necessary, and finally snaps his fingers, to make a large plate of baklava appear amongst the simpler, everyday food. "There we go. Tuck in, you're my guest, after all."

Crowley rips off a thick bit of bread, instantly recalling the way he'd opened the pomegranate earlier and Aziraphale's hand is searching for the desk to balance him. He is transfixed as Crowley smears salty feta across the bread and bites into it gratefully, flashing Aziraphale an incandescent smile around his full mouth. It's charming and exquisitely beautiful. It's such a rare treat to see Crowley eat and Aziraphale suddenly understands the intense gaze Crowley tends to focus on him when he does.

"Here, try a bite." And for the second time today, Crowley's hand is outstretched to Aziraphale, all innocence in his eyes and tempting him to another bite, to take what Crowley gives him.

Aziraphale's stomach flutters, his eyes drawn to the teeth marks in the cheese, a clear sign that Crowley was just there and he's asking Aziraphale to place his lips there. There is a heat radiating in his eyes that Aziraphale finds utterly bewitching and he leans forward, wrapping his lips around the bread, taking his own bite.

“It's nice, isn't it?" Crowley asks quietly.

“You're nice," Aziraphale says before he can stop the words and his hand claps over his mouth in surprise at the sheer audacity of his own wicked tongue. Something playful dances across Crowley's features.

"Don't say that, Angel, I'm not nice," Crowley says tenderly, no heat or biting edge to the words.

Crowley is suddenly much closer than Aziraphale remembered and the smokey, spiced scent of him is filling his nose. Held in his thumb and forefinger is a golden brown morsel of baklava, it's syrupy sweetness dripping down Crowley's fingers and he's offering it to Aziraphale whose eyes are as wide as saucers, his face burning. Crowley doesn't ask this time, just balances it in front of Aziraphale's lips and Aziraphale's lips open and close around it, unable to miss brushing across Crowley's fingertips as he takes the flaky treat into his mouth and Crowley's voice catches in his throat.

The sugar slides down Aziraphale's throat like a promise, and settles into his stomach with a warmth that suggests he's taken something of Crowley's smile with it. Suddenly self-conscious, Aziraphale rears back, and resolutely grabs for his own piece of bread.

"So, do you... normally eat with the other consorts?" He hates the question as soon as it's out. He doesn't want to know about that life, and Crowley doesn't seem to want to talk about it. What if he says he usually dines with the Sultan? What if -

"Don't eat much, but yeah, if there's a feast or something, sure, I eat with them. You know I don't need it."

To that, Aziraphale would disagree, but who is he to tell Crowley what to do with his corporation? Instead, he only nods, and reaches for another hunk of bread.

"And how do you spend your evenings?" This time he is smarter. "You know, if you don't have any. Well. Obligations."

Crowley gives him a strange look, it looks pained and annoyed and his eyes flash to the door for the first time as he lets out a heavy sigh. Aziraphale suddenly doesn't feel as clever as he thought he was a moment ago.

"What _obligations,_ Angel?" Crowley asks with a clear growl in his voice. Whereas a moment ago every syllable from his lips was sweetly spiced honey, now the bitterness in his tone makes Aziraphale wither inside.

What had felt like a sweet endearment on the rooftop now sounds like sneer. Aziraphale suddenly feels very small under Crowley's gaze and moves from the space that a moment ago was crackling with electricity and is now heavy and tainted.

"I mean, your job, of course. Surely there's _things_ you have to do, as a consort. Isn't that the whole reason you're here?" Aziraphale scrambles, trying to explain and backtrack and Crowley only seems to bristle more.

Crowley seems like he's ready to launch into a tirade, his eyes flashing with rage and frustration but he thinks better of it and swallows it back and crosses his arms firmly across his chest. Aziraphale nibbles nervously on his bread, his appetite starting to wane under Crowley's hard gaze.

"I'm just making conversation Crowley, if you were going to be so sensitive about this job, perhaps you shouldn't have taken it," Aziraphale says defensively, no longer able to look Crowley in the eye.

Crowley huffs, and puts down his bread with enough force to send shards of cheese flying to the floor. He doesn't make an attempt to pick them up.

"Yeah, because we're always in such a position to turn down jobs. And anyway, Aziraphale, why are you so hung up on this? I told you before that I don't want to talk about this assignment, and you just keep coming back to it. Am I just here so you can give me one of your holier-than-thou lectures?"

Aziraphale's mouth drops open, and he scrambles for words to reply, though none come. Only after he's taken a deep drink of his wine does he manage to answer.

"I'm certainly not planning to lecture you! When have I- I mean - that's just."

Alright. Maybe he isn't quite back to normal yet. Absurdly, his flailing seems to pacify Crowley, who sighs and leans back in his chair again. After looking like a cobra ready to strike, this is a big improvement, where Aziraphale is concerned.

"Let's just agree we don't talk about that, huh?"

Aziraphale can't understand how he’s let his mouth get so badly carried away with him and why he can't let go of this needling obsession with what Crowley is doing, when he is doing it and with whom. It's maddening and ridiculous. Worse, he's certain whatever magic was in the air a moment ago, when Crowley was feeding him and looking at him like he was the only other creature in existence, is dead. Aziraphale has allowed his cursed jealousy to stampede right over it.

"Yes Crowley, of course, I'm sorry," Aziraphale squeaks meekly.

He finds the spot on the bed he was perched on yesterday, taking small bits of food to nibble, but is ultimately more interested in the wine and the way it helps dull the gnawing shame and jealousy in his gut. Why would he allow his tongue to destroy such a beautiful moment?

He's too afraid now to ask Crowley any other questions, his face flushed with humiliation. Instead, Aziraphale toys the hem of his shirt, plays a maze game with the pattern on the rug and listens to Crowley drink his wine and sigh in alternate breaths.

Crowley stands suddenly and Aziraphale's eyes fly to him, panic coursing through him.

"I think I've made a mistake here, I'm sorry to have troubled you Aziraphale," Crowley says, his emotions imperceptible and Aziraphale looks at him helplessly.

"No, it's me who's been ridiculous, you don't have to go, if you don't want to," Aziraphale says, feeling now quite sick with his own pride and envy.

A muscle tightens in Crowley's jaw, and his shoulders stiffen.

"I don't want to, if we're just going to spend some time together like old - whatever you think we are. But if you're going to judge me, I can get that for free from those humans out there."

//Whatever you think we are. Yes, what is that?// Aziraphale is sure of nothing in that department, except that going down this road can only lead to trouble, especially as long as Crowley is there.

"I'm sorry, Crowley. I promise I won't. Please stay." It comes out more pleading than he intended, but maybe that's a good thing.

Crowley softens, and turns around again.

"Right. But no more talking about my assignment. Let's play a game, you got any cards?"

"Oh! Yes, of course, around here somewhere," Aziraphale says with a small flicker of hope and relief that Crowley is going to stay.

Aziraphale leaps at the opportunity, rummaging about his desk until he lays his hands on a battered deck, predominately used for solitaire when the reading material left him wanting and he needs something to pass his frequently sleepless nights. He holds the deck out to Crowley like a piece of treasure.

"Here!" He pushes the deck of cards to Crowley, who smoothly opens the box and pulls the cards out and begins shuffling them, his fingers working expertly across the cards, forming a perfect bridge.

"Great, thanks Angel," Crowley says, more relaxed now though that honeyed heat in his voice is gone entirely. But Aziraphale considers himself fortunate that Crowley's now sounding more cordial rather than outright hostile. Aziraphale sits back on the edge of his bed as Crowley begins dealing out the cards and raising a question eyebrow.

"So. . . what's the game?" Aziraphale asks before lifting his cards.

It turns out to be a simple, but enjoyable pastime, a game Crowley picked up somewhere in Hungary. The basics are quickly explained, yet the game possesses enough finer points for Crowley to gleefully overthrow Aziraphale's well laid plans several times. Each time, he crows excitedly and throws back his head to laugh, and each time, Aziraphale has to force himself to avert his eyes. If he didn't, surely his gaze would be drawn to that long neck, his mind wandering to a place where he could press kisses to that perfect slope, or even - no.

Anyway, whatever the game, Crowley perks up again, and Aziraphale feels the knot of uneasiness in his belly uncoil. It almost feels easy, especially the more the wine bottle empties.

"So what about you, Angel? How do you usually spend your nights? I'm sure it's not all books." The question gives Aziraphale pause, but he decides to take it as a peace offering, and smiles.

"Mostly books, I'm afraid. But I've been cultivating another talent since I've been stationed here." He gets up, and carefully fishes in the pockets of his caftan, until he unearths a small, golden key and unlocks the cabinet to Crowley's right. From a mess of papers, he withdraws only the top stack, and places them carefully on the table.

"I've been painting. Mostly the gardens where we walked together today. It's nothing much, of course, but I am rather fond of some of them."

Aziraphale waits with bated breath as Crowley's fingers stretch out to lift the first painting on the pile and pulls it closer to scan his eyes across it. A smile tugs at Crowley’s lips as he traces the details in the picture and after a moment, picks up another and Aziraphale feels he may explode at the look of impressed delight brightening Crowley's face.

"Angel, these are good . . .these are very good. You've got an incredible eye for colour, I mean look at this one here," Crowley pulls out a garden landscape just before dawn, where the sky lightens, but before the sun bursts over the horizon. "That's such a hard thing to get right, and you've got such a light hand, nothing's overwrought, just enough to evoke the mood of the scene and nothing to clutter it."

Aziraphale doesn't know how to process Crowley's praise. He’s been half expecting Crowley to tease him for taking on a hobby and this gushing and knowledgeable praise brings prickly tears to his eyes. He enjoys painting, and while he doesn’t consider himself very good, that was never the point. But as Crowley flicks through, admiring his work, he feels both shy and pleased beyond measure.

"Why, thank you Crowley, I'm quite overwhelmed you think so." The blush continues to rise to Aziraphale's cheeks and as Crowley lifts the next garden study, this time with a serpent lazily drooping from a tree, another delighted exclamation tumbles from his lips.

"Angel, I don't know how you do it, you're a magician with light, just look at the way the light just seems to glow through here, the shadows giving just the right level of depth, this isn't just a hobby, you've got a real talent for it," Crowley says and the tears now brim over as he bats them away.

"You flatter me you wily serpent," he says shakily.

He is so caught up in his own emotions, that for a moment, he doesn't notice how Crowley stills, and holds his breath. By the time Aziraphale dabs away his tears, and turns his focus back to the painting Crowley is admiring, it is too late.

Aziraphale's stomach drops. It is a half finished thing, with blurred edges and missing details, but there still is no denying whom it shows. Aziraphale witnessed the scene from afar a few weeks ago, before their paths really crossed, and never finished it, because the process of painting it left him feeling like a voyeur. And he definitely, definitely didn't mean to show it to Crowley now. In the picture, Crowley lounges on a collection of large pillows, the rich greens and purples a stark contrast to his pale skin and fiery hair. It has been a challenge to capture that effortless and slightly inhuman grace with which the demon drapes himself over surfaces, but he's quite pleased with his work. Until now. Crowley picks up the unfinished painting, and Aziraphale can see it shake in his hands. Obviously, Crowley notices that, too, because he quickly lowers it again, and looks up to face Aziraphale with an inscrutable expression.

"You knew I'm here. Why didn't you- have you been avoiding me???"

"I-"

"Do you know how many times I wished I had an actual friend here, that **you** were here??" Crowley's voice is brimming over with emotion, and something about it catches in Aziraphale's throat, so hard he feels unable to answer.

Crowley's emotions running over make the knot in Aziraphale's stomach wind tighter again, after only just beginning to ease. Aziraphale’s hands twist nervously, searching for an explanation that doesn't express the jealousy and bitterness he feels when watching the obvious and wanton display of Crowley in the Sultan's harem of consorts. That is why he has been avoiding Crowley and until he arrived in his library unexpectedly, he couldn't face the reality of what the boiling envy meant.

"I'm sorry Crowley," is the only thing Aziraphale can say without revealing the vile green monster inside himself and risking Crowley walking out forever. Crowley looks shattered and broken, loneliness and something too close to fear for Aziraphale's comfort contort his features and he swallows, looking back at the unfinished painting on himself, a devastated smile twisting there, as if trying to fight past the tempest in his heart.

"I hope you don't think that you can't approach me, no matter where we find each other. If I had said something the last time we met that gave you any impression that your presence was anything less than welcome, then I'm sorry for that," Crowley's fingers trace the outlines of the painting, as if trying to work out how Aziraphale could feel compelled to commit him so tenderly to paper, but feels he can't say hello and acknowledge Crowley's existence.

"How long have you been here, Aziraphale? And how long did you know I was here?" Crowley draws a ragged breath and looks over at Aziraphale again.

Aziraphale feels like he's been stabbed. He wants to make up a story, that he only arrived just last week and his failure to approach Crowley is a mere oversight as he settles into palace life. But the sheer volume of paintings of the palace and its grounds will prove that to be a lie and Crowley deserves an honest answer.

"I've been here about 18 months. And I've known you were here for 17 months, 30 days and 23 hours," Aziraphale says, shame and regret heavy in his voice and Crowley buries his face in his hands at confession.

Aziraphale drops to the floor, moving towards Crowley and carefully places his hands on his knees. He's a fool of an angel, a right petty and self-centred bastard and yet Crowley is apologising to him for an offence he never committed. Crowley has never given Aziraphale cause to avoid him, in fact, Crowley visibly lights up every time he and Aziraphale cross paths.

He knows, even as he opens his mouth, that he will tip his hands and show his cards too much, but he can't bear another second of Crowley looking so distraught.

"It's got nothing to do with how you acted the last time we met. Or any time that we met. In fact... you've never been anything but lovely and welcoming to me."

Something shifts in Crowley's expression, relief, confusion and pain winding around each other, trying to make sense of what he's saying.

"So, what then? You just had enough of me? Wasn't going to take up all your time, if that's what you were worried about..."

"No, Crowley."

He can't. He can't take it, seeing Crowley so hurt, and if that means revealing the ugly, jealous creature that has taken up residence in his heart these past couple of months, well. So be it, then.

"No, not that. Never that. I've -- " His voice is small and fades out without his permission, and Aziraphale has to close his eyes and collect himself before he can manage. "I've been jealous, alright? I could hardly bear seeing you with the Sultan, and imagining all the things I didn't see. It made me wish I was in his place, well - not in his place, but. That we could have the kind of relationship - oh, bother. This isn't making any sense." He draws back, and quickly gathers up the pictures, just to have an excuse to turn away from Crowley and keep his hands busy. "I'm attracted to you, alright? I have - feelings, for you, and I was afraid if our paths crossed again, you would tell me in excruciating detail all about this new assignment of yours, and I couldn't bear it."

From behind him, Crowley lets out a long breath and Aziraphale winces at the sound, focussing very hard on the incomplete painting of Crowley before him, his face so relaxed and beautiful, certainly now worlds apart from what is happening behind him. He hears Crowley stand and begin walking and he closes his eyes in anticipation of hearing the door open and close with a click. But the sound never comes and the footsteps still just behind Aziraphale and the weight of a single hand settles carefully on his shoulder, long slim fingers curling around and squeezing there and Aziraphale's heart jumps into his throat.

"Angel, look at me," Crowley's voice drifts to his ears, steady and soft.

Aziraphale swallows and turns around, resting his back against the table and slowly raising his eyes to meet Crowley. The air is vibrating between them, so silent and yet laden with thousands of years of unspoken words. He finds recognition, compassion and something else he's afraid to name, playing in Crowley's amber eyes. Crowley doesn't say a word, doesn't confirm or reject Aziraphale's confession.

Aziraphale feels split open, his guts leaking onto the floor at his feet but he dares not ask, dares not disturb the silence around them. He's said what he needs to, it’s up to Crowley to decide what he does with it. Crowley's hand is cupping his face and he tilts his head and in a flash, his lips are against Aziraphale's, soft and yielding, searching and exploratory. Aziraphale sees stars behind his eyes as he closes them against the kiss, even as part of him wants to ensure he doesn't miss a single moment or worse, open his eyes and find himself alone and the vision just a dream. But Crowley holds him close and he doesn't pull away and Aziraphale melts into his embrace and opens his lips willingly when Crowley's tongue slides sweetly against them.

This is it. Surely, he's gone mad. If this were real, Crowley would have said something by now, would have made a teasing remark or - Aziraphale's heart stumbles over his own thoughts - or he would have dissolved into those utterly endearing, utterly perfect noises he makes whenever something becomes too much. Surely, he wouldn't have been this suave.

Just a dream, then. The thought stings a little, but Aziraphale can work with that. He reaches out slowly, and finally, finally puts his hands onto those hips that have been tempting and taunting him for weeks now. They feel at once solid and fragile under his touch, warmth that surely has to exceed normal human body temperature radiating through the lengths and lengths of cloth, and Aziraphale can't help it, he just has to stroke. Has to splay his fingers wide, and circle Crowley's hips as much as his hands will allow, and draw small, exploratory circles with his thumb, just where Crowley's hip bones must be hiding.

A low sound spills from Crowley, and he presses in deeper, as though he's suddenly discovered that he's parched, and Aziraphale's mouth is the only source of water in sight. Oh, this will do. This will definitely do. Aziraphale pushes aside the thought of how he will surely feel in the morning, when all of this turns out to have been nothing but a dream, and decides to be exactly as forward as he likes. After all, this is his dream, and nobody will be able to blame him for it.

With gentle pressure, he nudges Crowley backwards, until his legs hit the bed and he half-stumbles down onto the mattress. Ordinarily, Aziraphale would hold back, would sit next to his partner or at least cast him a worried look at the thought of his own bulk in someone else's lap, but right now, he is past caring. He straddles Crowley's hips, fingers pushing into that long, glorious hair, and moans into the kiss with all the repressed abandon of centuries.

Their mouths crash together, like they're both drowning and the only way to survive is to hold as tightly as possible to the other. Crowley's hands clutch and grab at Aziraphale until settling into the thick, meaty flesh of his ass and digging his long, slim fingers there as if it is the only thing keeping Crowley from flying off into space.

Crowley's hips roll up against Aziraphale and he gasps. The unmistakable evidence of his arousal is pressing against him and those clever fingers are still kneading into him, finding sensitive spots that Aziraphale wasn't even aware existed. Crowley is making hungry, mewling noises around the crush of their lips, tongues dancing, exploring every last inch of the other's mouth. When the kiss finally breaks, they're both panting, red-faced and wide-eyed.

Aziraphale looks at Crowley with disbelief painted across his features. He's certainly had this dream before, but it never felt so real, so tangible under his fingers.

"Aziraphale, need you," Crowley gasps and begins pulling at the seams of his caftan, eager to unpeel his layers and finally get a glimpse of what lies underneath.

Aziraphale hasn't got the presence of mind to be shy or bashful. Crowley is beneath him squirming and rutting against him, his hands tugging at his clothes like a starving man set before a buffet. His pupils are blown wide and sparking with desire and want and it's all for Aziraphale, no teasing, no artifice, no friendly favour. Crowley's legs, still clothed in those incredibly arousing harem pants, slide around Aziraphale's hips, closing the circle at his ankles and pulling Aziraphale closer as the caftan finally opens and Crowley licks his lips hungrily as Aziraphale's broad chest and round stomach are revealed and his hands are instantly on his skin, smoothing his palms up from Aziraphale's belly button to his collarbone, skating across his nipples and pulling him back in for another searching kiss.

It takes him a while to recover from the shock of this enthusiastic reaction, and when Aziraphale's brain finally comes up for air, he realises that he's been a willing, but more or less passive participant in this for far too long. Crowley gasps as he tugs at his shirt with hungry force, and it takes a few pulls to free the fabric from the tight wrap at his hips, but oh, then Aziraphale's hands are finally, finally on Crowley's skin. He feels like he could melt. His blood is thrumming through his veins like thick syrup, coloring everything with sweet, sticky desire.

And then Aziraphale is on his back, with Crowley on top of him, not sure whether Crowley pushed him onto the mattress or whether he himself pulled them down, and is far past caring either way.

"Off, off with that, yes?"

Crowley only nods, and raises his hands to allow Aziraphale to slide off the shirt. When it is finally gone, Aziraphale drops the garment carelessly onto the floor, and pushes Crowley back just slightly, so he can admire his long, sinuous form, reaching and yearning, straining for Aziraphale's touch. In this moment, it doesn't matter who Crowley has touched in the past, and who he will go back to in the morning or in the next century. At this moment, it's all for him, and Aziraphale feels so full with it that he might burst.

"Do you want... this? All of it?"

He isn't even sure what he means by 'all of it', but he has to ask, has to hear it from Crowley, at least one more time.

Crowley's laughter at the question takes Aziraphale by surprise, it's so full of mirth and Crowley's eyes are sparkling as he gazes down at Aziraphale, a look on his face like he’s been handed a most precious and sought-after gift, though coloured with just a hint of incredulity. Aziraphale can't decide if he's slightly offended at Crowley's reaction or enchanted.

"Angel, you're all I've ever wanted. Yes, of course I want all of this, whatever all of this is. I want all of you, anything and everything you're willing to give. I don't just want it, I need it," Crowley says brightly and breathlessly and he's gazing at Aziraphale with more fondness and affection than he has ever seen directed at him.

Crowley straightens himself, still straddling Aziraphale's hips and pulls at the band of his trousers. As the tie holding it to his skin loosens and slides it further down, the deep cut v of his hips and the faintest whisper of amber curls come into view and Aziraphale whimpers helplessly at the sight of Crowley unwrapping before him.

"Are you sure you want this as well?" Crowley asks, voice low and thick with desire.

A tiny voice in Aziraphale's mind reminds him that Crowley is The Seducer, The Tempter and Original Sin and he is an angel and should resist, but he dismisses it swiftly as Crowley's trousers slide down just to the curve of his ass. Crowley's eyes fix on him while all Aziraphale can focus on is the perfectly smooth, taut skin appearing before him.

"Yes," Aziraphale whimpers and watches as Crowley presses himself up just enough to slide his trousers down his thighs. His long, curved cock finally bounces free, hard and leaking, from the curtain of those voluminous trousers.

A coy smile plays on Crowley's lips as Aziraphale stares at his cock and he can't resist a roll of his hips, a glistening stream of precome dripping from the head of him towards Aziraphale's belly.

Aziraphale can't really tell how, but in a shuffle of limbs that manages to be both awkward and enchanting, they both dispose of all their clothes, and finally, finally, Crowley sinks down at his side. Narrow as the bed is, he is pressed up against the soft flesh of Aziraphale's hip, his chin hooked over Aziraphales's shoulder, although - Aziraphale tries for a moment to imagine a scenario where they have more room, and can't picture them any other way.

Their bodies seem to fit together like they were made for it, and he certainly wouldn't allow even a single hair's width between them. Even the bit of distance that happens naturally, when Aziraphale rolls to his side to face Crowley, and drinks him in in all his naked glory, feels disturbing and unnatural. Instead of feasting his eyes like he wants, he winds his arms around Crowley and pulls him closer again. In this new position, Crowley's cock slides between them, and even the slight brush of him against Aziraphale's crotch is enough to make him gasp. The sensation is new - bright and hot and so utterly addictive that for a moment, Aziraphale doesn't realise that Crowley has made a noise, too - and his is sounding far less pleasurable.

"Angel, what in- are you okay? What is that?"

Oh, right. Aziraphale rolls back just a little, and tilts up his head to find Crowley's face. His thighs fall open at the movement, and Crowley's eyes widen even further at the sight of the bright, pulsing red stripes of flesh covering his groin.

"I - you know I've gotten this position under the pretense of being - well, a eunuch. I wasn't sure how many situations I'd be in where humans might see me naked, so I thought it best to make an effort accordingly - or, at least I hope I got it right. I haven't exactly done any in-person research, to be honest." Crowley still looks shocked, and Aziraphale feels the warm certainty of his arousal quickly fizzle out, and sink in on itself like a damp, abandoned campfire.

"I can change it! Anything you like, I'm not really - which do you prefer, usually? On your partners, I mean."

Crowley shakes his head and Aziraphale frowns. Aziraphale suddenly feels more exposed and vulnerable than before, having quite forgotten he wasn't sporting a typical effort, too caught up in the moment to change it into something more recognisable.

"Does it hurt?" Crowley asks as his fingers move carefully across the scarred skin, his touch feather-light and concern knit across his brow. Aziraphale realises that it's not disgust but worry that drives Crowley's hesitancy and his own face softens considerably at the gentle exploration of Crowley's fingers.

“No, it's just cosmetic, meant to look the part, nothing more," Aziraphale explains.

Crowley's touch grows firmer in response and Aziraphale gasps at how unexpectedly sensitive his skin is there, the nerves lighting up and sending warmth through his skin at Crowley's exploratory ministrations. Crowley's face relaxes, growing more satisfied that he isn't in pain and that his touch elicits pleasure from Aziraphale. He looks again at Aziraphale, a pink blush colouring his own cheeks.

"Haven't got a preference . . . haven't had any partners. If you're happy and comfortable with it and it doesn't hurt, then I’m happy," Crowley says simply and continues to slide his fingers across the fleshy mound in between Aziraphale's thighs, his finger tracing a pink raised scar and Aziraphale's fingers grip tightly into the sheets and he doesn't register what Crowley's just said.

"Pardon, what did you just say?" Aziraphale asks, breathless with Crowley's casual announcement coupled with the increasing pressure of the fingers across his skin.

"I said I don't have a preference, Angel. Leave it like this, certainly seems responsive enough," Crowley gives him a wicked grin and moves to draw a line of kisses from Aziraphale's belly button to the top of his mound and then drag his tongue up a line across Aziraphale to meet his own lips.

"No, I mean-"

Aziraphale's question is cut off by the kiss, though he suspects it's less because Crowley wants to stop him from talking, and more because he's too caught up in the moment himself to register that Aziraphale was still speaking. And perhaps it's better that way? A morbidly curious part of Aziraphale's brain can't help but wonder, how is it possible? All those temptations he talked about, all those humans who fell over themselves to get his attention and his approval. Granted, whenever Aziraphale covered a temptation for Crowley, it was never something to do with lust or carnality, but he always just assumed... Well, perhaps Crowley doesn't consider those humans his partners. All just part of the job, surely, it stands to reason that he wouldn't relate it to his own preferences.

The curiosity niggles at him, regardless, but Aziraphale is smart enough to know that not everything he wants is good for him. He is usually very adept at indulging his urges, but right now, with so many indulgences before him... he may have to choose wisely.

What he chooses, in the end, is to put his hand on Crowley's hip, and stroke the sensitive flesh there slowly, before sliding his hand between Crowley's legs, and closing it around his cock.

Crowley responds to Aziraphale's grip by pressing into the sheath of his hand, his hips bucking forward, a visible shudder of desire pulsing through him and Aziraphale's eyes light up at the display. It's incredible to have Crowley so eager and enthusiastic under his grip, he marvels that he can drive that from Crowley and of all Crowley's experiences over the centuries, that the simple grip of Aziraphale's fist elicits such a fevered reaction.

"Feels amazing Angel, like your hand was made just for me," Crowley gasps and Aziraphale pumps a firm stroke down the length of Crowley and his head tips back, his Adam's apple bobbing against the groan that emanates from the core of Crowley.

"You're beautiful, Crowley, just perfect," Aziraphale exhales and Crowley brings his eyes back to him, rutting against the solid grip of Aziraphale's fingers wrapped around him and the praise raises goosebumps across Crowley's skin.

"Here, let's try something," Crowley says after a moment.

He withdraws his cock from the warm embrace of Aziraphale's fingers and with a quick miracle spreads lubricant across Aziraphale’s now pink and swollen mound and his own cock. Crowley guides Aziraphale's legs around his hips, pausing to take in the sight of Aziraphale’s thick thighs wrapped around him. Aziraphale blushes, feeling exposed and momentarily wishing he could miracle away the softness that his corporation has collected over centuries of good food and wine. Crowley tsks quietly.

"I'll have absolutely none of that Angel, you're stunning and I love every single inch of you," Crowley purrs and places a sweet kiss on Aziraphale's lips. Aziraphale's heart skips a beat, uncertain if Crowley is just paying idle compliments to his body or what he could really mean by ‘I love every inch of you’. While Aziraphale is busy mulling this over, Crowley's now slick cock slides between his thighs, hot and hard against his scarred flesh.

It feels like nothing Aziraphale has ever known. Whatever Crowley meant earlier by not having had any partners, Aziraphale did have others, and still, nothing could have prepared him for this. His body is set alight from his groin outward, and his thighs tighten instinctively around Crowley to rut into his touch, needing just a bit more.

Crowley's hand comes up to the back of his neck, and brings them together as closely as they can be, completely wound up in each other and touching wherever the bounds of their mortal bodies will allow.

"Beautiful Angel," Crowley mutters against his ear, and he sounds spellbound - utterly ruined with the intensity of the moment.

"Perfect, so perfect, I-" his voice breaks with another thrust of Aziraphale's hips, and he cries out, muffling the sound of his naked arousal against Aziraphale's shoulder.

'I' - what? What was he about to say? Aziraphale's heart burns with the question. He wants to ask so badly what exactly Crowley meant by his earlier words. But he also doesn't want to break this spell, wants to keep chasing this bright spark between them, because -

"I love you," he blurts out, and immediately seizes up.

What if it was too soon, what if -

The smile that breaks across Crowley's face is all the answer he needs. It is brilliant, as luscious as the sunset they've just witnessed together, and for a moment, Aziraphale is almost certain he will come just from the pleasure it sends through him.

Crowley has never looked so incandescently happy. His amber eyes look shimmery and wet as he continues to slide against Aziraphale and Aziraphale feels like he's going to immolate from the deliciously slick feel of Crowley's cock moving against him and the sheer love and affection glowing from Crowley's every pore.

"I love you too, I love you so, so much," Crowley says in return, with no hesitancy or fear in his eyes and his hand reaches up to curl into Aziraphale's hair and bends down to place another deep, tender kiss on Aziraphale's lips.

The ease with which Crowley says the words shatters Aziraphale into a million little pieces and he's not certain he'll ever be able to piece himself back together again. It’s as if the words have always been on the tip of Crowley's tongue, simply waiting for the chance to come tumbling off and it's too much.

Aziraphale's hands are scrambling at Crowley's back, fingers digging into the base of where his wings are. It’s as if his fingers have unlocked them somehow and Crowley's coal-black wings appear behind him. Aziraphale gasps at the sight, his every nerve vibrating as his legs tighten around Crowley, increasing the pressure around his shaft and sending a pulsing, dull pleasure into Aziraphale's core that makes his hips grind up towards Crowley. Crowley uses the opportunity to grip into his plush hips and hold him at an elevated angle while his wings allow him to drive harder and deeper against Aziraphale's soft, swollen mound.

It's too much and stars are bursting behind Aziraphale's eyes. He's always prided himself on his control and longevity, but with Crowley above him, stroking so lovingly against him, knowing that Crowley loves him and is using his beautiful body in every way he can to give pleasure to Aziraphale, has him falling off that cliff. His body is suddenly wracked with bone-shattering spasms and he's crying and gasping and Crowley just keeps going, his wings propelling him forward in a maddening rhythm and suddenly, Aziraphale’s world goes as black as Crowley's wings.

When he comes to again, Crowley's wings are drawn tight around them, a canopy of glistening dark feathers. His thrusts are now shallow and concentrated. When Aziraphale lifts his gaze to Crowley's face, he notices with a start that he does not blink. Instead, his eyes are trained on Aziraphale with utter concentration, a pleading expression on his face and his lips slightly parted as though he wants to repeat those words again, and again, and again.

It's clear from his laboured breath and his tense muscles that he can't, and so Aziraphale reaches up, and cradles Crowley's face in his hands.

"I love you," he whispers, and can feel the answering tremor in every one of Crowley's limbs. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

Crowley soaks up the words, he leans into them like a plant into the sun, and finally - tenses up and spills between Aziraphale's thighs. They collapse together into a tangle of limbs and a mess of breathless whispers, and Aziraphale's arms shoot up instinctively, to wrap around Crowley’s torso and pull him close.

Crowley nuzzles against Aziraphale's body, burying his face in his neck, murmuring wordless sounds against the skin there. Aziraphale lets out a deep, soothing breath, his entire world has narrowed to the warm cocoon of Crowley's wings and he's never felt this at ease or this adored.

//Is this what I've been missing all along? Has missing this meant that I've always felt incomplete, like a part of me is missing. He's always been there and yet we've always been so far apart as well. Opposing sides. Adversary. Heaven. Hell. It's all meaningless nonsense because he is it, this where I feel safe. Where I feel at home.//

Crowley's seed cools and congeals between his legs and the thought to miracle it away flashes across his mind, but he finds he's not yet prepared to let it go, to remove the evidence that Crowley found his pleasure there. His muscles are still trembling with the enormity of what’s just occurred and it's pleasant, on the whole. In the morning, he'll have to face that this can't stay this way, that they can't start a new life together, forget Heaven and Hell and just live out the rest of their eternal days like this.

Aziraphale considers that this should snap him out of the pleasant afterglow he feels, but can't be bothered to care. He’s too consumed by Crowley: the feel of his long limbs winding around his, the smell of him pleasantly tingling his nose. For now, this is enough, this is plenty and it's everything he's ever wanted.

"Crowley?" He asks softly, almost idly and Crowley mumbles an affirmative response against his neck, not quite prepared to remove his lips from the spot they've been teasing and kissing lazily.

"I'd like to paint you, if you think that would be all right? I want to save this forever, to ensure I remember exactly how you look at this very perfect moment in time."

There are more nonsensical sounds, but this time, Crowley seems to realise that Aziraphale can't make out what he is saying, and unpeels himself just slightly from his neck.

"Not yet. Wanna keep holding you."

Well, when he puts it that way, who is Aziraphale to object?

He gives a pleased sigh, and rolls both of them to their sides, careful not to twist or crush Crowley's wings. With Crowley’s arms still around him, Aziraphale reaches out to run his fingers softly along a long, elegant stretch of thigh, the beguiling dip of Crowley's waist, accentuated now by the fact that he's on his side.

"What you said before. Do you mind if I- that is, you don't have to answer of course, if it makes you uncomfortable." Crowley's eyes have drifted shut, and he opens them only a sliver now, accompanied by a questioning grunt. "I mean, I'm just curious. You really never did this with any humans, just - just because you liked them? Found them attractive?"

The blush on Crowley's face is back, and it seems like he is keeping his eyes shut on purpose now.

"Never." A few heartbeats of silence, then his eyes fly open. "Wait, have you?"

Crowley's words land on him like a ton of bricks. All this time, he's assumed, quite wrongly, that sex went hand in hand with Crowley's temptations. Now he is aware that Crowley hadn't actually gone any further than the tempting, whereas Aziraphale had indulged in this particular act with more humans than he was prepared to count. He feels a bit ill and afraid to reveal this truth to Crowley. Aziraphale can only squeeze his eyes shut and nods affirmatively that he has in fact taken partners … lovers … whatever the right phrase may be, and he's waiting for Crowley's wrath to come thundering down on him.

But nothing happens.

When he steels himself enough to crack an eye open to look at Crowley, a playful smile is on his lips.

"Why suddenly so shy Angel? Doesn't seem like you've been so bashful in the past?" Crowley says and he's teasing him, yes, but there's warmth and affection he hadn’t expected and he nodded.

"Doesn't that bother you?" Aziraphale asks slowly and Crowley shakes his head with a laugh.

"No, it doesn't bother me. You are God's Sacred Angel of Indulgence, the High Priest of Trying New and Pleasurable Things. I'd be more surprised if you hadn't, to be honest," Crowley chuckles and pulls Aziraphale into him closer.

Aziraphale isn't sure if he wants it to bother Crowley or not and there's a tiny glimmer of disappointment when it comes clear it doesn't. He's being ridiculous, Crowley's response is the mature and proper one and Aziraphale is big enough to recognise when he's being petty.

"I must say I'm surprised you've not, surely you've wanted to and I'm almost willing to swear my life on the fact the opportunity having presented itself at least once," Aziraphale says, still not quite able to process that Crowley, sex on actual legs, the greatest known Tempter of mankind has never once shared his bed with anyone up until this very moment.

"Sure, the opportunity has come, part and parcel of the job. But I've never been interested. I've been uncommonly single-minded since, well, since I met you. And I'm around all of it so much and seen where it can lead, it seemed too messy, too complicated with humans, especially when all I ever wanted, really, was you." Crowley shrugs and gives another sparkling smile to Aziraphale.

"I - Crowley, don't say that!" Aziraphale finds himself blushing furiously, a warm satisfaction spreading through him at the confession.

At the same time, though, he feels a bit of shame licking at his insides - surely, the right and proper thing here would be to respond: me too, I've never really wanted anyone that wasn't you.

But would it be the honest response? Definitely not.

Aziraphale has long known that he is attracted to Crowley, and much, much later, yet still a considerable while ago, admitted to himself that he's fallen in love with him. In spite of all that, it would be a lie to say that Aziraphale has never wanted anyone else. And the admission makes him feel small and ungrateful. How can it be that Crowley has been perfectly content like this?

Meanwhile, Aziraphale, supposedly the more virtuous amongst them both, has indulged in so many ways, and so many times? Crowley seems unperturbed by his outburst, and merely shrugs.

"Why not? 's the truth." He watches Aziraphale for a moment, and then, even while Aziraphale is scrambling for an answer, his face falls.

"Don't worry, Angel. I don't expect you to say it back. Don't expect anything from you. I know you - this - nggah." He rolls onto his back, the wings vanishing as he moves, and buries his hands in his hair. "I'm not going to hold it against you if you wake up tomorrow, and never want to mention this again. All I'm saying is . . . But - I'm not going to forget it."

Aziraphale feels heat rising in his face, now so different from the arousal he'd felt just minutes ago. He feels the pinch of agony that he lacks Crowley’s restraint and disinterest in others. It hurts that tonight means everything to Crowley and even if he's told to never speak of this again, it will always be playing on the back of his mind and the soul-crushing disappointment that Crowley is right: Aziraphale will never forget it either and yet understands and accepts that he'll find himself in the arms of a human again. Crowley will always niggle the back of his mind as what he can't have, it would only be a mere speed bump in pursuit of pleasure. He feels disgusted with himself, even when he knows he shouldn't.

"I'm not expecting you to forget Crowley! Not speak of it perhaps, bury it in your memories, but don't forget it. And I'm sorry I can't offer you my assurance that I won't find another intriguing human and be willing to see where it leads," Aziraphale's words surge violently out of him, the distance between his innermost thoughts and his tongue considerably shortened.

Crowley gives him an unreadable look before untangling his hands from his hair and smoothing out his own shoulder-length curls.

"I've not asked for your apology nor laid any conditions on how to conduct your intimate affairs, Aziraphale," Crowley says curtly and Aziraphale flinches.

He just can't seem to find the correct way to talk about these things with Crowley and only manages to dig his thumb into sore points and press harder, rather than backing off.

"I . . . That's not what I meant. I mean, just because you wish to save yourself for an impossible situation doesn't mean I have to," Aziraphale stutters and concludes weakly and tries to reach out to Crowley across the growing divide between them as Crowley moves away.

Crowley growls at the last and it's dangerous and borderline furious. He turns to face Aziraphale with a stern face.

"I can't seem to catch a break here! Since you've had to admit that I existed yesterday, you've been intensely curious and dare I say jealous as to what I'm doing here and yet, when I tell you the honest truth that I have no interest in sex with humans, you want to push me straight into a human's arms. Whether you and I is impossible is besides the point. I don't suffer in celibacy and I'm content with my sex life or rather lack thereof and while my preference is and will always be you, lack of you has been no hardship, especially if this is where it ends up!" Crowley snaps.

Aziraphale rears back at the furious tone, and instinctively draws the blanket around himself. It isn't what he meant, not even remotely, but any explanatory words quickly clump and harden on his tongue, until they feel as uncomfortably sticky as the remains of Crowley's orgasm on his thighs. Not unwelcome, per se, but desperately out of place.

He draws himself up carefully, and nods without meeting Crowley's eyes. With a prickle in the air and a whisper, which feels far too insignificant considering where they've been just moments ago, the mess disappears from his thighs and mound, and he swings his feet off the bed, not quite sure where he's going but feeling suddenly like he needs to put more distance between them.

"Of course. I'm. I'm sorry." He fumbles for a moment with the sheet, trying to wrap it around himself and failing to make it into a feasible garment, so in the end, he throws it back onto the bed, and takes a few defiant steps towards the table.

Well, let Crowley see him naked, then. If he even is watching. Nothing there that he hasn't seen only moments ago, so what is Aziraphale trying to hide, anyway? The leftover wine in his glass slides down Aziraphale's throat far too easily, and before he has time to consciously consider it, he has refilled the glass, and is downing another. It might not be the smartest choice to avoid uncomfortable situations, but at least, their corporations are not bound by human body chemistry, and their minds don't respond quite the same way to being intoxicated.

Still, it is no proper plan for keeping himself occupied, so after the second glass, Aziraphale finds his gaze drawn back to the stack of paintings that started this entire mess, and absent-mindedly opens the drawer that contains his painting supplies. Perhaps, instead of falling into bed with Crowley, he should have asked to finish his painting, while he had the benefit of using the live model. Perhaps, for once in his life, he should have resisted following his body's every whim.

Aziraphale's fingers shake as he rifles through the paintings, he feels desperately awkward and exposed, despite defiantly pulling his shoulders back and pointedly ignoring Crowley sprawled across his bed. He pulls out his palette and squeezes out a measure of Indian Yellow. It's a striking match for Crowley's eyes and he's infuriated with himself, trying his best to ignore Crowley and yet still finding himself drawn to little reminders of him.

He pulls out a blank bit of paper, dipping his brush into the amber oil paint, absently painting a smear across the page. There is a rustle of sheets and the sound of Crowley's bare feet meeting the wooden floor, he can even hear Crowley’s toes press into the floor in the silence of the room and he curls closer into himself and through wet, tear-laden eyes, he concentrates every ounce of focus he has on the paper in front of him.

"Angel, I'm sorry," Crowley whispers and slides carefully up to Aziraphale's side, the warmth radiating off his body and Aziraphale chokes back a pained sound. He isn't sure how it's possible, but he's certain he can hear Crowley frown.

Crowley's fingers are squeezing around his shoulder and Aziraphale withdraws from the touch, still too wounded and Crowley's words ringing harshly in his mind like a war drum. Crowley sighs, though it's not a weary or even an upset sound. Aziraphale is tempted to glance over his shoulder to look at Crowley, but still can't shake the wound to his heart and keeps his eyes fixed on the painting, just running the brush in nonsense lines and squiggles.

"Aziraphale, I was out of line, I know what you meant and I took it thick, please look at me," Crowley said plaintively and Aziraphale can't ignore the tender tone in his voice any longer. He turns his head carefully to meet Crowley's eyes, glowing with affection and a glimmer of mischief. Crowley's lips turn into a smile as Aziraphale faces him and he reaches up to stroke Aziraphale's cheek, a cold, creamy feel of something smearing in his thumb's wake. Crowley’s smile cracks into a cheeky and playful grin and when Aziraphale reaches up and pulls his fingers back, they are streaked with Indian Yellow paint.

"You - what on earth was that for??" Aziraphale stares at his fingers incredulously, unable to reconcile the silly, playful gesture with the heavy, heartbroken silence just moments before.

There is still mirth burning in Crowley's eyes, though, and in spite of himself, Aziraphale finds himself drawn in, a laugh breaking through first in brittle, jagged pieces, and finally blooming into a hearty, full body sound.

"You're ridiculous, you wretched demon, what on earth would give you the idea -"

"Oi! I'm apologising here, but I'm not going to listen to you insulting me, Angel!" His hand darts forward, and before Aziraphale can react, Crowley has unscrewed another tube of paint, and is holding out another glob of paint, hovering just above Aziraphale's nose. "Don't try me. Nobody's going to take you seriously if I give you a blue nose, I can tell you that much."

The rush of affection that goes through Aziraphale is so strong, his knees actually buckle.

//You silly, wonderful creature, how could I ever pick a fight with you over something as inconsequential as human lovers. Whether we had them or not, I can't think of a single reason it matters.//

He reaches out for Crowley and draws him closer, the awkward motion of it enough to smear a streak of navy blue across Aziraphale's other cheek. His kiss is deep, and crushing, and if it ends up depositing some of the paint on Crowley's face instead, surely that is just a perk. Aziraphale quickly loses himself in the sweet, yielding pressure of Crowley's lips, his fingers curling instinctively around his upper arms, holding him close in a gesture that tolerates no discussion.

In all their time on earth together, they’ve done a great number of things together: watched civilisations rise and fall, mulled over key historical events (even played an active role in some of them). They’ve drank, they’ve eaten, they’ve fought and they’ve laughed.

But until now, they have never, ever allowed themselves to be silly for the sheer sake of it.

Crowley’s kiss is deep and pulling Aziraphale ever closer and so Aziraphale doesn’t notice when Crowley manages to grab another tube from behind Aziraphale’s back and streaks another glob across Aziraphale’s face, pulling back to laugh maniacally, effervescent joy radiating from his as he admires Aziraphale’s now rainbow-streaked face.

“You wicked, naughty creature! Come here!”

Aziraphale doesn’t sound remotely threatening because of the giggles, light with fun and love and brightening the dark corners of his heart and mind. As Crowley tries to move away, he trips backwards, landing on the bed with a burst of laughter, pulling up on his elbows and watches with the most radiant eyes Aziraphale has ever seen. Aziraphale scoops a fat glob of the pink paint onto his fingers and Crowley begins to howl, hiccuping against the giggles he can no longer control.

“C’mon Angel, you don’t wanna do that, look at the mess we’ve already made, we’re even now, surely,” Crowley gasps and his eyes widen in mock horror as Aziraphale continues to approach with a set determination and feral bastard smile on his lips.

“Oh? Is that so? You’re all done now you say? Made enough of a mess you think?” Aziraphale asks syrupy sweet and regards Crowley, streaked in blue and yellow, his body shaking with laughter as his eyes move towards the pink blob in Aziraphale’s fingers. He’s a bewitching sight. Aziraphale has never seen something so spell-binding as Crowley losing himself like this.

Aziraphale pounces onto Crowley’s lap, dragging his pink paint covered fingers across his face as Crowley squirms and cries for mercy beneath him.

“Now, we’re even,” Aziraphale announces and he has only half a second of triumph before Crowley is pulling him into a fevered kiss, broken only by errant chuckles neither of them can quite restraint.

When they finally break the kiss, their chests and arms are smeared with vibrant colour, and Crowley's face has transformed into a veritable rainbow. He is bursting with laughter and life, and - Aziraphale could swear that his heart stops at the thought - with love.

"You're the most beautiful creature alive," he bursts out inelegantly, and, oh, that blush adds a lovely tone to the palette of Crowley's face.

"Look who's talking."

No, no, none of that, that will never do. Aziraphale doesn't want to hear Crowley's praise at the moment, he knows that it will be given freely and willingly, but he's far too aware of how long he's been holding back himself.

"Please, let me tell you," he asks in a voice so soft it could almost be a prayer. "Without reciprocating. I want to - I think I need to." Crowley's irises seem to pulse at that, expanding, constricting, and finally giving up the fight to appear at least marginally human, and flooding out to cover his eyes in his entirety. With something that isn't quite hesitation, but might be reverence, Crowley nods. Aziraphale settles in on his side, and takes Crowley in hand, slowly stroking him while he begins to speak.

”In all my infinite time in Heaven and Earth, I’ve never known a creature like you. You delight in beautiful things, both simple and grand and you’ve shown more compassion and grace in your actions than any agent of Heaven I’ve ever met. You're mischievous and cheeky, but never ever cruel or malicious. And the fact that you seek out and seem to enjoy my company, even despite the several challenges, humbles me immensely. I mightn’t understand what exactly it is you see in me, but it gives me joy beyond measure that you do. You aren’t just enchantingly beautiful physically, your true beauty is at the heart of you. The rare and precious combination of both,” Aziraphale says seriously and earnestly.

He is aware that he may never have another opportunity to tell Crowley the exact contents of his heart and he is determined to articulate it as clearly and deeply as the sentiment is felt. Crowley’s is stunned, the weight of the words stilling the last remaining giggles and his mouth opens and closes several times, as if his tongue is itching to repay the words in kind and then remembers Aziraphale's request to allow him to just say this without return.

Aziraphale's hand moves to slowly start working Crowley's shaft and as Aziraphale's endearments sink in, Crowley closes his eyes and whimpers quietly against the gentle and loving caress of Aziraphale's hand around him.

"Angel,” he murmurs and his eyes flutter open again. Aziraphale is met with the purest, most unadulterated expression of love and affection and his heart twists. "Thank you." Crowley scoots closer and presses his body against Aziraphale and buries his face into this chest, murmuring silent prayers there, his lips moving against Aziraphale's skin in a quiet, devout worship, allowing him to care for him, to say and do everything Aziraphale has otherwise held back since the dawn of time.

"Thank you," Aziraphale responds, corrects, almost. "Thank you for being the kind and wonderful creature that you are. Thank you for seeking me out in every lifetime, every century we've been through, and never taking the coward's way out."

//Like I did.//

"Thank you for loving me, and for allowing me to love you."

//Even if I haven't shown it to you nearly enough.//

The admission that Aziraphale loves him seems to draw a new burst of urgency from Crowley, and he begins to rut into the touch, until Aziraphale stills him with a hand on the small of his back. They may not get to do this very often, and given the limitations they are working with, he wants to give Crowley everything he can. He wants to draw this out slowly, and leave Crowley shaking to his core. This is where it comes in handy that Aziraphale has done this before, as much as he still wishes they could have shared their first time.

"Shh, darling, please relax. Let me take care of you. Let me show you how very much I love you."

Crowley shivers as Aziraphale coos so sweetly in his ear and he stretches just a moment, as if to release the pleasure building in his groin and allowing it to spread throughout his limbs. He settles against Aziraphale in a newly comfortable position on his side, his free arm reaching up to draw lines across Aziraphale's paint covered face. He fixes his eyes, fully amber now with wide, dilated pupils that seem to be searching inside the very depths of Aziraphale. Nothing but trust and devotion there, Crowley taking his gentle command with no hesitancy.

"Feels so good Aziraphale, you touching me like this, I want you to take care of me, I'll let you," Crowley concedes quietly and richly pleasured sounds tumble from his throat as Aziraphale continues to stroke him, a bit harder now.

Crowley's cock twitches in response, precome beginning to bead at the head of him. Aziraphale smiles and presses a kiss to Crowley's lips before carefully withdrawing his hand, drawing a wordless protest from Crowley as the cool air suddenly surrounds his cock. Aziraphale gently nudges Crowley to his back and scans his eyes down his slim form, still flushed from their paint fight, looking wild and untamed with his hair askew and colour smeared across his face. Aziraphale straddles his lap and Crowley can't stop an involuntary roll against him and Aziraphale shifts his weight to firmly still those eager hips.

"Don't worry my darling, I'll not leave you waiting for long. I want you to be inside me, I want to share myself with you, do you understand?" Aziraphale whispers and Crowley's eyes widen and he squirms beneath Aziraphale in anticipation.

"Yes, please Aziraphale, please," is all Crowley can say and Aziraphale gives him a pleased smile and with a suddenly slick finger, presses into himself, past the tightly ringed muscle, sighing deeply to press the digit deeper.

Crowley watches, his teeth clamped down on his bottom lips as Aziraphale stretches himself, murmuring against his own fingers, promising Crowley that he'll be inside him soon and how eager Aziraphale is to feel their bodies join together at last.

He takes a long time to open himself up, as fully as he wants -- can't bear any obstacles or pain between them anymore, no matter how temporary or even pleasurable.

By the time he has worked himself open, Crowley is whimpering beneath him, and straining against him with shallow little thrusts. Finally satisfied with his progress, Aziraphale places a hand on Crowley's chest, and presses him back into the mattress. With all the restraint he has left in him, he leans forward and drapes himself over Crowley's chest, stroking the muscle there and murmuring gentle encouragement while he makes sure they are touching in as many places as the penetration will allow. Then, and only then, does he take Crowley's cock in hand again, and guides it slowly to his entrance, to sink down on it and join them together as deeply as possible.

Crowley's feet shuffle, his toes curling as he adjusts to the feeling of Aziraphale enveloping his shaft, the slick, hot sheath of him fluttering and clenching around him and Aziraphale leans in to stroke Crowley's face.

"Shhhh, it's okay, does it feel alright? Nothing hurts?" Aziraphale asks, his concern for Crowley front and centre of his mind.

Crowley is gasping and hissing beneath him, his fingers gripping tightly into Aziraphale's fleshy hips, an unmistakable heat in his eyes.

"Yesssss! Oh, sweet Satan, Angel, feels so fucking good," Crowley says through gritted teeth, drawing breath tightly through his lips as he grounds himself, bites back the urge to spill immediately into Aziraphale.

Aziraphale smiles at him reassuringly and for the first time this evening, is glad that there is at least some experience between them to ensure that Crowley can be assured and coached through what is surely an overwhelming and powerful experience for him. Aziraphale strokes Crowley's hair off his face and pets and encourages him while remaining fully seated, resisting the urge to clench too tightly around Crowley. As Crowley's breath begins to settle, his muscles relaxing and melting into the mattress, Aziraphale captures in his mind the vision before him: Crowley and his body made for sin, experiencing this unique and earthly pleasure for the first time and his heart may explode from the honour and privilege of being able to give this to Crowley, to lead him through what his body is capable of feeling.

"It's so tight, you're all around me Angel, part of me, it's incredible," Crowley manages at last and tentatively presses his hips up towards Aziraphale, testing, savouring the deep connection now shared between them.

Aziraphale bends down and kisses Crowley deeply before moving his lips to slide across his jaw and neck, finding those secret sensitive spots and nibbling while Aziraphale grinds his hips in a slowly circle and with each movement, Crowley becomes more undone, more ruined, clinging onto Aziraphale as if his immortal life depended on it.

"You're doing so well, my sweet Crowley, you fill me perfectly, like you're made for me."

Aziraphale realises idly that when conjuring up this particular effort, he has apparently skipped a few parts, making the experience pleasurable, but by no means as ecstatic as it could be. He could change it, of course, but after a moment's consideration, decides not to. This way, he can be fully focussed on Crowley, drink in all the sounds he makes, and soak up his sweet, pleasured expressions. At the end of the day, any moderately skilled human can give Aziraphale an orgasm, even a cleverly shaped piece of wood or glass can, but this- this is possible with Crowley only.

Whenever Crowley's movements become more erratic, Aziraphale stills, and holds his hips between his hands until the urgency passes, and he can start to work him up again. Each time, Crowley protests, and each time, he calms down once Aziraphale whispers a few reassurances in his ear, and tells him just how good, how strong, how patient he is being. After the third time, however, he is beginning to scramble at the mattress with his hands, and when Aziraphale reaches for his wrists to steady him, his hands meet scales instead of warm and pliant skin.

"Crowley dear, are you still with me? How do you feel, do you need to come?"

Crowley's eyes are sparkling with tears, his teeth digging into his bottom lip and the words seem caught on his tongue. Crowley's need is plainly evident, his skin flushed pink with arousal, goosebumps raised across his skin and now dotted in scales as he's increasingly unable to maintain his human form.

"I . . . .I don't want this to end," Crowley groans, the tears now starting to leak from Crowley's eyes and Aziraphale's chest cracks wide open with the confession.

Aziraphale has been bringing Crowley to the edge and back again to prolong his pleasure and clearly Crowley's been using everything available to him to do the same. Aziraphale notes the tremble in Crowley's limbs as he desperately tries to hold back the tsunami building up inside him and his body is crying for release and Crowley is too afraid to see it end to let himself enjoy his climax.

As long as they're like this, Crowley's pleasure ebbing and flowing with carefully controlled motions, they're together. The concern in Crowley's eyes at what happens after this is heartbreaking and for all the joy and the exquisite desire shared between them, it's an all too real reminder that this, no matter how mind-bending or earth-shattering, will see the sunrise.

"Oh, Crowley. Don't deny yourself this, you know nothing can last forever and you'd best enjoy it to the fullest," Aziraphale soothes, wipes a damp tendril of hair clinging to Crowley's sweat-damp brow. Crowley whines and sobs beneath him, so needy and hungry for it, but so afraid to see it end. Aziraphale wishes there was a way to make it right, to ease that suffering that is clouding his eyes. His hands move from Crowley's wrists and twine with his fingers, joining their hands as Aziraphale moves his hips more decisively, whispering gentle encouragement to Crowley.

"Let go my love, my sweet, wonderful serpent. I'm here, I'll catch you when you fall."

When Crowley finally falls over the edge, it is with a sharp cry, as much protest as it is ecstasy. His muscles cramp into tight coils, hard and shaking under his skin and he's desperately trying to hold on to this as long as he can. And in a way, it seems to be working: where before, they sought their release with fevered urgency, now it rolls over Crowley like a series of powerful waves. As soon as one subsides, the next one starts and swells, and Aziraphale's eyes widen gradually as Crowley writhes underneath him and comes. And comes. And comes. When he finally sinks back into the pillows for good, there is a silver sheen to his brow, entirely coated in sweat, and his eyes open hesitantly.

"Fuck, Angel... what the fuck was that?" Although Crowley sounds wrecked, and utterly spent with it, Aziraphale can't help but chuckle.

"I believe, my love, they call it an orgasm." His cheekiness earns him a playful swat on the arm, but judging by the way Crowley immediately curls into his chest, he isn't genuinely upset.

"Y'know what I mean."

"Yes. I know. I know." Slowly, Aziraphale unfurls his wings, and folds them around them both. "There, see, love? Nothing's ending just now, I've got you."

Crowley seems to have a smart reply ready on his lips, but he swallows it and instead allows Aziraphale to pull him into the safe protection of his arms, soft, honeysuckle-scented wings surround them both. It’s their own private world, nestled away from anyone and everything else. Aziraphale strokes Crowley's heated skin gently, the black and red scales beginning to lighten as he comes down off his high and his muscles still tremble against Aziraphale's fingertips.

Aziraphale whispers a soft song to him in an ancient language lost in time. Crowley is struggling to keep his eyes open, spent and exhausted from the bone-shattering orgasm and his body softens in Aziraphale's strong arms.

"Worth the wait, you were," Crowley says weakly, a sleepy, lopsided smile on his rainbow-coloured face and Aziraphale chuckles and presses a kiss to Crowley's damp forehead.

"Hush, enough of that you silly serpent. I'm right here, you sleep and I promise I'll be here in the morning," Aziraphale purrs and Crowley gives him one last look, peace and contentment shining in his eyes as they finally flutter close and his breaths grow deep and regular as he succumbs to sleep.

"Love you, Aziraphale," Crowley murmurs on the edge of sleep and Aziraphale pushes a hand into his hair, twining them into the strands.

"And I love you, Crowley," Aziraphale permits.

Goodness only knows when he'll feel safe enough to say it again. He doesn't exactly feel safe now, but it's certainly the closest he's ever been. Aziraphale watches Crowley sleep for a long while, carefully studying and memorising his features, innocent and somehow younger looking, the worry-lines fading as Crowley dreams. The paint streaked across his face reminds Aziraphale that he doesn't have to just memorise this and he carefully unpeels himself from Crowley, moving to the armchair and scooting closer with a fresh sheet of paper and his paints miraculously back where they belong.

It's meditative, the preparation and studying Crowley's sleeping form, his hand moving on it's own accord, knowing exactly which paints to dip into without his eyes to guide him. He's too focussed on Crowley, capturing every curve and angle of his body.

The picture forms slowly, and yet, this may be the quickest Aziraphale has ever painted. He usually waits meticulously for the paint to dry, following the rules of human craftsmanship as closely as he can.

Today, though, he doesn't have the time. He wants to commit all of this to paper while it is still fresh and before his eyes. Thankfully, his tools seem to sense the urgency, and paint dries almost as quickly as he's done applying it, brushes miraculously clean themselves, and Aziraphale can lose himself entirely in the process. By the time he dabs tiny specks of color on the miniature Crowley's face, his eyelids have grown heavy, and he has to concentrate very hard to maintain his focus and finish what he has started.

Finally, the painting lays glistening before him, a near perfect image of the peaceful slumbering demon in his bed. He places it to the side, but hesitates just before the paper touches the table.

Crowley.

Crowley should get to keep this, and yet, Aziraphale can't bear to part with it. He considers it a moment, and wonders if he can make another one, at a later time, from memory. But it wouldn’t be the same. It'll never be the one he made tonight, in this most extraordinary of situations. A thought forms in his head, and under the touch of Aziraphale's hand, the picture splits into two perfect doubles - that is, except for the addition of a perfectly rendered set of night-black wings on one of them. Aziraphale's heart clenches as he stares at it, and finally slips the painting with the winged figure into his desk, before sliding into bed next to Crowley.

**Author's Note:**

> Want to comment, but not sure what to say?
> 
> We welcome any kind of comment – short sentences or emojis as much as long lists of copied sentences you liked with or without your reaction, and of COURSE long rants or analyses on what you liked. Constructive criticism is also always appreciated!
> 
> If you’re stuck on what to say, the Long Live Feedback comment builder is a neat tool. It exists as either a [ Google sheet ](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1lOqWGDNquHxr23l84ASKn-vdSLFrHop4giVOYDkKnWI/edit#gid=547831518) or an [excel sheet](https://onedrive.live.com/view.aspx?resid=5483CD320B0B1070!128&ithint=file%2cxlsx&authkey=!AH0iTc9X_UtUzCE), both of which help you generate comments that express what you liked about a story without you having to find or type the words. Comments can be customised or fully generated by the tool, and we promise, as your authors, we will love you for commenting more frequently!


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